


Danse Macabre

by thejeeperswife



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: The Last Court
Genre: Bards, Baroque Dances, Confident Cullen Rutherford, Courtly Love, Dancing, Don't copy to another site, Dueling, F/F, F/M, Flirting, Just a little angst, Killed or Be Killed, Love/Hate, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Mainly Fun, Masks, Murder, Orlais (Dragon Age), Porn With Plot, Recovering addiction, Secret Hidden Firefly Quotes, Secret Relationship, Secrets, Sexual Urges, Smut, Spies, Treasure Hunt, business and pleasure, mainly smut, opera - Freeform, vigilantes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:48:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 62,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22990486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejeeperswife/pseuds/thejeeperswife
Summary: The Inquisition’s success at Halamshiral rests on an unlikely ally.  Lady Constance Elise Comtois, a famous Orlesian bard, offers her knowledge, voice, and deadly skills to the Inquisition.  Cullen Rutherford instantly dislikes this masked human chameleon Inquisitor Adaar invites to Skyhold.  It is not just her origins and profession he abhors.  Her alluring beauty and siren-like qualities draw him closer into her lyrium blue eyes like a new unbreakable addiction.It is not like the War Council has time for such a masked ridiculous elitist.  They already has their hands full with a Hawke-like vigilante called the ‘Silver Fox.’  The supposed hero of the destitute keeps meddling in many Orlesian and Inquisition affairs.Espionage, murder, sex, and hidden treasure awaits the Inner Circle.  It is a race to save Orlais and the world from Corypheus’ red lyrium armies.  To survive the Grand Game, they must know how to dance through its cutthroat twists and turns to achieve victory.  If failures, all living beings no matter their station share the same fate: death.Story Theme:  “Secrets” by Written by WolvesCullen & Constance’s Theme:  “Killing Me Slowly” by Bad Wolves*NSFW Begins at Chapter 7*
Relationships: (Minor) Cassandra Pentaghast/Varric Tethras, (Minor) Female Adaar/Josephine Montilyet, (Minor) Female Inquisitor/Josephine Montilyet, Cullen Rutherford/Original Female Character(s), Minor or Background Relationship(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 122
Kudos: 45





	1. Bourree:  Gift Wrapped

**Author's Note:**

> “A bard must know history so she does not repeat it. She tells the tales but is never part of them. She watches but remains above what she sees. She inspires passions in others and rules her own.” ~ David Gaider’s [Dragon Age: Stolen Throne](https://www.amazon.com/Dragon-Age-Stolen-David-Gaider/dp/0765363712), pg. 234
> 
> A new original character and story! I've been pondering this tale for about a year.  
> I finally feel I have a great character and plot for you all to enjoy. Hang for a ride through Orlais's imperial court. And much smut. 
> 
> Chapter Theme: "Hymn of Annumara" by  
> Example Composition: "Suite for the Lute in E Minor, V. Bouree" by Johann Sebastian Bach
> 
> "Danse Macabre" has playlists! Check out each chapter's recommended songs on [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/12b3SD7p34f5XEix43C2hH?si=mxfyBFSGT0GjMXzpXQHG5A) and [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLw4onCkm8zQYchaAk_kjZIfmI7xVeWXtu)! Make sure to subscribe to receive alerts for the newest music!

* * *

_The Bourrée:_ A quick paced French dance adapted into a courtly concert dance. The steps allowed everyone to step like in a ballet. Over the centuries, it formalized into a classical ballet with its gilding, quick steps. Example Composition: Johann Sebastian Bach’s "Suite for Lute in E Minor: V. Bourée."

* * *

“I do not understand why _I_ have to go to the damn opera.” The commander grunts on top of his black Inquisition Barded Charger. His leather gloves creak as he grips the reins tightly. His nose wrinkles in disgust for being surrounded by so much… _Orlais._

Lady Josephine Montilyet huffs once. The blond Fereldan childish whining wears on her typically patient and understanding nature. “As I stated the _four_ other times, Commander, Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons wishes to meet all the Inquisition’s leaders, especially its military general. As a chevalier and commander of much of Orlais’ armies, he wishes to review if the Inquisition’s military is worth the potential alliance if he successfully gains the Orlesian throne.”

“You mean _if_ the Inquisition’s military would be mighty enough to stop him when he invades Ferelden.” Cullen snaps, glaring into the carriage’s window at the ambassador, the organization’s spymaster, and their Qunari Inquisitor. “He knows I am loyal and protective of my homeland and wishes to size me up in person, replace me, and execute his grand plan, one that he publicizes as loudly as a town crier. Denerim quakes if he becomes emperor.”

Leliana slightly shakes her head, trading looks with Josephine and Inquisitor Seleem Adaar sitting across from them both. “Aren’t you thinking quite far ahead? His grand plan hinges if he can claim his birthright in the first place. Celene scooped the throne out from under him. Even as a great player of the Game, Gaspard failed to outmaneuver Celene, who quickly garnered the necessary support from the Council of Heralds. If he will meet with us, it means he is losing his diminishing support within court. He sees having the Inquisition’s Inner Circle as his esteemed guests at the ball as a chance to heighten himself and garnish more support at the negotiation table. Celene’s typical support from the Chantry lacks power after the Conclave. She struggles to maintain her foothold. If Gaspard wins back his crown, the alliance with the Inquisition will solidify his opposition and possibly switch the Chantry to his side. That means the Chantry might recognize us and stop slander our efforts, a win-win.”

Those icy blue eyes silt and her jaw clenches. “Gaspard will be perceived as a hero by joining the war against Corypheus. His skillful chevaliers will aid your soldiers, Commander, especially after Adamant. The grand duke knows he cannot just take the crown, turn what remaining Orlesian soldiers towards Ferelden, and _invade_. Your military prowess demonstrated that against the Grey Wardens.”

Cullen remains unconvinced. Skillful strategists think beyond the present. The commander knows Gaspard is one of the best generals in Thedas. Like in chess, he must think five moves ahead to save his soldiers and win the war. So, this current journey wastes many days for the commander. That afternoon, the war council travel through the Emerald Graves along now safe roads and checkpoints established by the Inquisition just two months ago. It was part of a larger operation across Orlais fighting league after league of the red templars and Venatori. The only area not liberated by the Inquisition is Emprise du Lion, but weather limits their reach. Meanwhile, the Council’s focuses shift to the empress’ winter ball.

“We made it clear though that we don’t promise support for his crown, right?” Seleem questions, her blue-tiled white hair sliding off her shoulder. Her curling horns scratch the carriage’s embroidered ceiling. 

Inquisitor Adaar felt confident and secure enough to not travel by horse and work within the carriage. “He’s been difficult since we established in Skyhold. He’s as aggressive as Queen Anora of Ferelden. The empress refused our attendance at the winter ball even after we settled multiple regions of her empire. She left us no choice but to turn to her cousin adversary for an invitation. Even then, Gaspard refuses because of our massive march and assault against the Grey Wardens. When you told me, Josie, he wishes to meet us, I knew it must be a trap.”

Josephine blushes slightly, using the carriage’s curtain to hide the pink tint across her tan cheeks from Cullen. Leliana giggles, receiving a glare from the ambassador. It is a secluded secret within the Inner Circle that the Tal-Vashoth ice mage and the noble Antivan fancy one another. For months, neither woman pressed in fear or rejection. After the assault on Adamant, they shared their feelings and became more physical. Still, Josephine wishes to keep their relationship status secret for propriety and security sakes. Still, Seleem slips details and nicknames accidently.

Josephine slaps her bard friend’s arm and cleared her throat. “Yes, Inquisitor,” Seleem’s brow scrunches for a moment then realizes her slip. The Qunari flushes slightly before her pointed ears focused on Josephine’s explanation. “The grand duke knows that we promise nothing. He just knows we are just as concerned since Corypheus’ spies have infiltrated the royal court. We stated little about _why_ we wish to attend the ball. His change of opinion results from a recent contact assisting the Inquisition—someone both Leliana and I know personally. She offered to act as a mediator to acquire an invitation.” Josephine tosses the commander a fiery look out the window, driving the conversation back to the initial complaint. “ _That’s_ why we are going to the opera. The mutual beneficial contact is performing a private performance for a select group of nobles Leliana and I wish to meet and discuss agreements.”

“This contact sounds like someone who wants to take advantage of us.” Cullen warns with a hand swipe. He knows he made such arguments the last few times he disagreed with this expedition. He does not have the time or patience to sit and listen to some woman sing horrifically while being stuffed in a small ballroom with pompous masked idiots.

Now, it is Leliana’s turn to scowl at the commander. “I repeat: this individual rarely sticks out her neck. I know her well. If we can convince her to work with the Inquisition, we will be well prepared and mentally armed for the negotiation ball. She works in all social classes throughout Orlais. She is most gracious to give such a rare and delightful performance as a meeting backdrop and gathering potential donors. Several nobles attending tonight include those who own resources you have requested since our inception.” 

The spymaster’s icy blue eyes silt again. A raven lands on the windowsill. Without looking away from the commander, Leliana retrieves the message and feed the bird a treat. “I checked through my network. Her intentions are genuine and supportive as they have been for months now.” Cullen can tell by her voice to not push anymore.

Cullen perks an eyebrow, directing his stallion around a larger road-embedded rock. The carriage bounces over it and hops the women inside into the air. “What about this?”

“Lady Comtois supplies us with social and secret information from high and low from both Ferelden and Orlais. She spends much of her time in Orlais, but her list of acquaintances stretches throughout southern Thedas. Many nobles who came to Haven at our inception partly joined us per her encouragement. Unlike most bards who stay connected to a specific patron, Lady Comtois is her own supporter. She gains patronages with individual nobles benevolent and with pure intentions who _she_ chooses to work with. Their relations are more of a short partnership instead of long term patron-bard agreement you typically see. She’s known as a leaf on the wind, a so-called noble _ronin_ , as she calls herself.”

“While some people question her loyalty, many find her methods more in the benefit of all those surrounding her patron.” Leliana adds like she was trying to bring Cullen around to their thinking. “If she discovers her patron has lied or has dark secrets that may harm, she will expose them and allow the world to judge them than serve blindly and for coin as other bards do.”

“Wouldn’t that dry up her partnership quickly?” Seleem asks, trying to understand this woman aiding them at the moment.

“You would think so, but oddly, no.” Leliana confesses with her hands folded in her lap. “At the beginning, that was true, but once the imperial court heard her unique voice, she was not without dozens of admirers and potential business partners. Her selectiveness lets other nobles in the Great Game know that if Lady Comtois finds her patron pure enough to lend her blades and voice, then it is someone everyone must align with to survive the next scandal. I may be called ‘The Nightingale’ by the imperial court, but Lady Comtois’ duelist abilities and musical challenges test my influence. People call her the _Mésange d’Orlais_ , the ‘Songbird of Orlais’.”[1]

“Is that a problem for you, Sister Leliana?” Seleem probes with a slight teasing smile.

“If it was anyone other than Constance, yes, I would have _words_.” Leliana giggles, meaning eyes with Josephine. “She was actually a student for a time. She is a distant friend, one who ‘flutters’ into my path every once in a while. We are both aware of each other’s activities. When I became the Left Hand of the Divine, she became a trusted contact. For a few missions, I even employed her because she was not easily influenced by the Chantry. I knew never to ask her to be an agent. That’s not how she operates. She has been like that since she was Lord Philliam Trevelyan’s ward, free spirited and independent. People question her loyalty and loose commitment, but she knows people change like the wind. Lady Comtois carries herself along those winds until she lands upon a person targeted by malevolent enemies. When she partners with such people, her allegiance is strong, and the cause worth dying for. She resolves the situation through many means beyond just assassination. Then, off she goes again…”

“Commander, if I say Lady Comtois played a role lifting the du Paraquettes to nobility and ending the contract on my family’s lives, will that cease your complaining?” Josephine suggests, sending the other women present into giggles.

“I had no idea, Ambassador.” Cullen mumbles, rubbing his neck. Maker, he has been whining a little too much about all this.

“Because Lady Comtois did not want the attention.” Josephine continues her shaming. “She learned about the contract as quickly as the Inquisitor and I did. Her contacts reached out to Leliana, knowing our spymaster would do anything for a dear friend and comrade. She acted as the non-Inquisition liaison. She even ran some required documents herself to make sure no more messengers died or spies took the documents. It was the beginning of her open relations between is.”

“I will need to thank her personally.” Seleem smiles at her ambassador. Cullen sees how relieved the Inquisitor was that her love is finally safe.

“No, do not, Inquisitor.” Josephine warns, waving her hands out in front of her. “It is Lady Comtois’ way. Her involvement rumors throughout the salons, thus why she easily convinced those necessary nobles to this private performance. She will never openly admit her role. It just adds to her benevolent story.”

“I never heard such a goody two-shoe bard…” The commander grumbles under his breath. Up ahead, he notices the escort Inquisition scouts and soldiers slowing and investigating a block in the road.

“Oh, Constance is anything but good-natured, Commander.” Leliana cautions with a dark stare. “Never betray or scorn her or you will find your secrets hung out to dry and your associates hanging by their knickers. You will never expect your death. It will be slow, painful, and of your worst nightmares.”

 _And the Inquisition relied on her for this important meeting?_ Cullen thinks, nudging his stallion forward to discover what attracts everyone’s attention.

The closer the commander reaches the gathered squad of Inquisition soldier, the more peculiar the sight becomes. Several escort personnel meets with a checkpoint squadron, all seem somewhat surprised to see one another in the middle of the Emerald Graves. By the time Cullen dismounts his stallion, the Inquisitor’s carriage halts, and the occupants glance outside.

“Lieutenant, what is going on here?” The commander questions the highest ranking officer present. Then two escort scouts step aside. In a perfect line across the road are four men and women gagged and hog-tied together with one wearing a silver Orlesian mask. Around each neck hands letters addressed to each Inquisition leader.

“I just arrived myself, Commander.” The lieutenant explains, waving to the tied individuals. “We received a raven a half a bell ago with Inquisitor Adaar’s seal. It states to come and pick up captured prisoners. When I arrived, you all had yet to crest the hill, and the scouts explained they did not know about any prisoners.”

Cullen scan the captured people, one with a face Cullen will never forget. “Maker’s breath, that’s Maliphant, the Freeman red lyrium smuggler who faked his death at Villa Maurel!”

A woman’s gasp behind him jerks Cullen’s attention to Josephine gazing upon the second prisoner. “That is the House of Repose assassin who trapped Comte Boisvert! There is a one hundred sovereign bounty on his head for imprisoning the comte and acting under his name! Even if it was to inform about the contract.”

Seleem approaches the group, squinting at the woman wearing the Orlesian mask. The Qunari mage pulls the mask away. “Linnea…You have been slippery since you escape Redcliffe after Magister Alexius surrendered.”

Leliana need not look at the last prisoner. She recognizes the woman as one of her own but dressed in Venatori colors. “So, you are a double spy. I figured, but to catch you like this. When the Silver Fox’s tip arrived before we left with your new orders, I wanted to seek you out myself. Evidently, the vigilante caught you up to no good before I did.”

Cullen’s brow scrunches. “The Silver Fox?”

Leliana continues removing the envelope necklaces from each person. She hands Cullen a shiny metal Orlesian mask. Josephine gasps again, happily.. Seleem rolls her grey eyes.

The commander orders his men to arrange for cages and an escort to bring each person back to Skyhold. The scouts and squad work quickly, sending ravens to the needed groups. Cullen eventually joins the gossiping ladies deep in discussion over this silver whoever.

“To think, he is helping the Inquisition!” Josephine sighs like Cassandra while reading one of her novels. “Not everyone will be pleased, but to know such a folk hero sides with us is so exciting.”

“Fairbanks thanks the Silver Fox for all his efforts the last year. He guided refugees to their cave, brought food, and killed Freemen patrols so people could go hunting and gathering. It wasn’t for the Silver Fox before we arrived here, the refugees would have starved and been killed by the Freeman of the Dales.” Seleem huffs, slightly muttering to herself over the character. Her grey eyes flick to her ambassador, clapping excitedly about the masked hero. Jealousy, perhaps?

“Is anyone going to explain….?” Cullen waves around him.

“Ah, that’s right. You haven’t been keeping up with the Fox’s actions.” Leliana smirks and rolls her blue eyes. “I believe your words were ‘It sounds like another crazed Hawke but for Orlais.” 

Cullen throws the spymaster a glare. Leliana ignores him. “You might not know, but throughout the last few generations, there has been benevolent people working to help poor and weak here in Orlais. The original person was the Black Fox. His real name was Lord Remi Vascal. Lord Vascal reacted when an evil nobleman in Val Chevin kept harming the people. Vascal used his rogue skills to rob the rich and give to the poor, becoming infamous villain to the nobility and a fabled hero to the masses. He is a legend here in Orlais. Various rumors and stories swirl like that his best friend was a bounty hunter meant to capture him, his lover was a mage from House de Montfont, and had a secret hideout where he hid the greatest treasures ever known. When he disappeared, people theorized he and his merry band found ancient Arlathan and never returned.”[2]

“Empress Celene wears a ring, one of a ten-part collection with encryptions. If a person gathers all ten, you will figure out The Black Fox’s stronghold and become rich beyond their wildest dreams. Garrett Hawke even had one ring until a crafty thief stole it about three years ago.” Seleem adds into the discussion, her face pales speaking about the lost Champion. “He always told that story around the campfire…”

Josephine continues with a giddy smile. “However, the Black Fox’s actions for the poor continued even after he disappeared. You might have heard of the Red Fox, an Orlesian who worked inside occupied Ferelden for King Maric and later King Cailan, feeding the rebellion Orlesian secrets and battle plans. Many Orlesian dismiss such a character because how could a fellow Orlesian fight against their expansive empire. Memoirs discovered in Fort Drakon state how the Red Fox stole from Orlesians and their Fereldan supporters to help the rebellion rebuild their army and push Orlais out of Ferelden.”

The second tale jogs the commander’s memory. “I remember hearing something like that about many people, but nothing about _foxes_.”

“If it was a mabari you would remember…” Leliana teases, sending the other ladies present giggling. The War Council women enjoy making him the butt of their jokes.

“The Silver Fox is the most elusive of them all.” Seleem explains, returning the conversation to the mask in Cullen’s hand. “Since the mage rebellion and the civil war broke out, a mysterious individual or individuals have been assisting the refugees while tricking and stealing from both Gaspard and Celene’s wealthy advocates. The person escorted civilians out of the Ville Montevelan when the War of the Lion started. Afterwards, he assisted Fairbanks here in the Emerald Graves until we arrived. I saw him bouncing through the trees every so often. It was him that led us to the red lyrium smugglers before another shipment was beyond our grasp.”

“Josie and the Inquisitor think it is a man, but all evidence of build and flexibility tells me it is a woman.” Leliana hypothesizes, adding her two coppers. “I have been aware of her since the White Spire. Before the Inquisition, she fed me information through dead drops in major cities. My network has yet to find concrete evidence to who the person is, or it is a group of individuals. All I know is that the Red Jennies interact and support this person, as has Sera before joining our organization. The Fox and the Jennies work for the same people, the lower social classes trapped in the middle of conflict and most impacted by the strife.”

“So, a man or a woman acting on their own accord just captured four of the worst enemies and leaves them in the road, forges the Inquisitor’s seal, and hangs little envelopes with what in them…?” Cullen scowls at the sealed documents in Leliana’s hands.

“Intelligence for each of us…” Leliana hands the commander his addressed letter. She opens her note and reads it aloud. “She apologizes for using the Inquisitor’s seal, but it was the only way to secure the soldiers before the prisoners escaped.”

“I don’t feel assured by _his_ words…” Seleem muttered, reading her own documents.

“If we do not get going, we will be late to dress for the opera.” Josephine hurries, clapping at the council to resume travel.

The commander groans and rubs his shoulder, shoving the masked buffoon’s letter into his coat and not giving it another thought. What does this vigilante know that Leliana and his people do not? “Oh we don’t want that to happen…” He mutters sarcastically.


	2. Passepied:  In the Light and Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: “Lucia di lammermoor” & “The Diva Dance” by Eric Serra and Inva Mula (from the "The Fifth Element" OST). Yes, I envisioned Constance singing the "Diva Dance" in Thedas. I love that song, and she would rock it...and Cullen would likely look like Bruce Willis through the whole performance.  
> Example Composition: “Noces villageoises: Passepied” by Jean-Baptiste Lully
> 
> If you want to see what Lady Constance Elise Comtois' ballgown garments look like click on my special [tumblr post](https://thejeeperswife.tumblr.com/post/611885330598100992/dms-chapter-2-fashion)!

* * *

_The Passepied_ : Meaning “pass-foot”, this French court dance was considered one of the fastest dances at triple-time during the Baroque period. Choreographers adopted it into many operas and ballets to represent rural settings. Example Composition: Jean-Baptiste Lully’s “Noces villageoises: Passepied"

* * *

Cullen hates masks.

The commander detests stinky perfume.

Most of all, the Fereldan former templar loathes _Orlesians_.

The opera finally ended about a half of a bell ago. Attendants escorted the fifty or so people out of a small theatre into some stupid marquis’ minor ballroom with an adjacent parlor. The marquis once stood against the Inquisition, but now begged to throw money at the organization. He claimed his change of heart was thanks to Lady Comtois, who viewed the organization as the rise of a new Andrastian golden age. Not wanting to miss the latest _fad_ and the Chantry still a crumbling leaderless mess, many Orlesians saw supporting the Inquisition to jump on the bandwagon and hope to control it via funds.

Alas, the person the Inquisition needs on their side at the moment was not such pleaders. Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons and his supporters join the War Council in the parlor. The ladies’ insistence for Cullen to be there was, as he expected, overly exaggerated. The grand duke nods his head to Cullen, speak a little small talk, and then left the Fereldan to the masked buffoon. 

Still standing in the parlor’s entry, Cullen looks like he was part of discussions. In actuality, he feels like a glorified door man to block nobles no privy to the negotiations. He could have saved himself this grief by staying in Skyhold and doing some _real_ work. Instead, he stutters and deflects questions from new admirers from both sexes. The commander uses the doorframe to cover his behind from unwanted touching. Leliana whispers before joining Josephine and the Inquisitor to ‘continue to look pretty’ and distract meddlers, her real goals now plain for all to see.

It does not help Cullen feels naked without his armor and disarmed right then. The Inquisition members dress in a half military-inspired uniform with bits of decorative armor plates on their shoulders and around the neck. The uniform’s color is an eye-blurring blood red that made his companions and him look like they bathed in fresh blood. They contrast against all the marble and gold ridiculously adorning the rooms.

Evidently, all of this, from the uniforms to roles, is a trial run for Halamshiral. Cullen will definitely demand not to be a wall ornament cornered by admirers while the others did the true work. That is the only positive he finds in the stupidity.

“How ever did you style your hair so _sexily_ , Commander?”

“I do not see a wedding band, Commander. Does that mean you are… _available?_ ”

Maker, this is every Fereldan’s worst nightmare.

“What did _you_ think of tonight performance?”

Cullen swallows as a dozen women and men wearing feathered and jeweled masks bat their long lashes at him through their mask’s eyeholes. “It was…well performed.”

“And what do you think of Lady Comtois’ voice?” Another pompous elitist follows up from his right.

“It was…pleasant.”

Maker, make tonight end!

In all honesty, the opera singer’s performance might not be his cup of tea, but actually well done. Opera singing never made sense to Cullen. A person should not sing like they were talking in such long exaggerated bouts. Andraste sang the Chant of Light as hymns. The lines and music allow more believers to remember Andraste’s words in everyday life. It is songs of praise and remembrance for the Maker’s Bride’s actions and sacrifice. Opera sounds like someone who rambled for hours and desperately searched for ways to keep the audience’s attention. The form just goes on forever like hand drill into Cullen’s skull.

Despite that opinion, Cullen appreciated Lady Comtois’ vocal abilities and control. The second half of the piece she belted requires an expansive octave range, lung capacity, and vocal control. It had been decades since Cullen sang in the templar recruits choir, but he remembers the exercises required to even reach half the proficiency the performer displayed tonight.

Of course, Cullen will not tell these vultures his actual opinions. They analyze him like he is suffering live pig roasting over a fire spit. They wait for the perfect time to baste him and add a new log to the fire. He feels his skin crawl and his mind narrow the longer under their observation. Any moment, his mind will break. Cullen will squeal as the fire and smoke below finally kills him…

“Maker…Count Palomer is so intoxicated he relieves himself in the garden foundation…?!”

Suddenly, like a herd of druffalo, Cullen’s enthusiasts perk and leave out of the ballroom and into the attached small garden. The whole group vacate so quickly, it takes Cullen a few moments to recognize he is alone and can finally relax. He takes a deep relieving breath. The air no longer smells like a dead cat bathed in bat droppings.

Alas, once taking a moment to center himself, the commander realizes he is not _completely_ alone. About two feet from him is a tall figure in dark grey and silver attire. A muslin wrap encircles their head like a hood. Their gender is not exactly noticeable because even Orlesian men wore long jacket tails, covers, and skirts like some women. There was no defining features about the outfit, just lace, silk, feathers around the color, and gems. Every so often, Cullen see pants and knee-high boots peeking out of a front slit. Nothing states who or what race the person identifies except that even a dwarf in tall boots could be so tall. Like the other Orlesians present, this person too wore a mask, but one that resembled something Cullen has seen recently, but could not exactly place.

This new fan eyes the commander, the silver mask’s eyeholes covered in lace. The muslin covers their hair color and its length. The only features he could discern was light skin tone under the sheer fabric and slight jawline under the full face mask.

“Do not fear, Commander Rutherford. That tomfoolery will entertain your gaggle of ducklings for at least a quarter bell. The count enjoys his cognac, but leaves it for anyone to add a drop of hallucinogens and laxative. You would think he would learn by now.” This mysterious person states like they speak about the evening weather. Again, the pitch and tone could be for any sex, higher for a tenor man and low for an alto woman. Even their accent shifts like they are from everywhere and nowhere. “Enjoy the moment’s fresh air and quiet. The ballroom is large, and you are not trapped.”

Apparently, Cullen’s growing claustrophobia and panic blanked like an enchanted sign to all the Orlesians present. Like the savior read his mind, the mysterious poisoner finishes. “Do not fret. You might not play the Game regularly, but your templar stature hides your internal struggle well…mostly.”

The blond Fereldan does not know what is worse: the admirers or this enigmatic person who tilted their hooded head like a curious mabari pup. “While I do not condone poisoning, thank you for the moment reprieve.” Cullen grunts, clenching his jaw.

“You need to find your own tricks if you wish to survive the empress’ ball.” The mystery savior observes with a frown only noticeable by how their jaw shifts beneath the mask. They tilt their head up a like more. The mask has short pointed ears, a long snout, and solid whiskers like an animal. “This is just an appetizer for the ball’s massive entrée. There will be hundreds of nobles at Halamshiral…Once your gaggle attends tomorrow’s midday salons, your name and handsomeness will the newest tunes and poems throughout the capital. By the end of the next week, you will be a common household name.”

“Maker, I hope you are wrong.” The commander grumbles, rubbing his neck.

“As much as you might resist, listen to Lady Montilyet and Sister Nightengale’s advice. You will then survive the onslaught of gilded lies and disillusionment.” The animal being snaps their gloved hands. “Or even better, find someone who can assist you personally.”

“I will take that under advisement.” Cullen nods as the undefined person takes a few steps towards him. The long coat tails swoosh around their knees and tall boots. They pull out an envelope from a jacket dress pocket and hands it over.

“Also, when an ally gives you some intelligence about the red templars, at least read it. I did not go through all that effort to just see it sit in your mantle unopened. I too wish to remove red lyrium from Thedas. It has killed hundred beyond the templars: women washing their clothing in polluted streams, children playing around red spikes, men thinking it is riches and then spread it throughout rural villages to grow on every person its surrounds.” The promoter advises as Cullen takes the envelope. Turning away, the strange attendee smiles enough the collar shows more of their skin and jaw, the silver on the animal mask so pronounced in the candlelight, it glimmers and nearly blinds him. “Until next time, Commander Cullen _Stanton_ Rutherford.”

Instantly, Cullen winces and whips his head around. He hopes no one else heard his ghastly middle name. Once confident that family name is still a guarded secret, the ex-templar studies the envelope in his hand. Silver thread still hangs from the wax seal, while road mud and his glove prints color the corners. In block writing is his full name, including his dreaded middle name _Stanton_ again. Actually, virtually _no one_ knows it. This is the envelope from…

Then it hits him.

“The Silver Fox…” The man whispers, flicking his head up and searches the ballroom for where the vigilante went. Everyone present wears nothing like their long clothing or head covering. Yet, the person is gone. It is like they disappeared into thin air in the middle of a golden crowd.

Disappointed, the commander’s whiskey gaze shift back to the envelope. He left his armor and mantle in his inn room around the corner. An Inquisition soldier stands guard over the party’s suites. None of Leliana’s people would have not allowed a known vigilante near their items. Yet, in his hand is evidence to the contrary. This is a security risk that requires Leliana and him to investigate thoroughly later. However, Cullen knows there was no ill intent from this masked fiend.

He hopes.

Another explanation pops into his mind. “He or she saw me pocket it on the road. They spied during the capture…” Cullen surmises, slipping the envelope into his breast pocket, but this time reminding himself to read the contents. “Why act with such subterfuge…?” 

He smirks a little. “I see why the Council argues who and what gender the person is so much…” He thinks a bit, his mind focusing their peeking cut jaw slightly covered in feathers and lace from the cloak and jacket collar. A person’s jaw tells a great deal about their age and body. They shaded it to _look_ like it was freshly shaved, but there were no large hair follicles present. Cullen know most men around his age form thicker hair the long they shave. _She_ got close enough to see that fact. Either she was not as cunny as Leliana claims or that person wanted him to trust _her._

“A woman, huh…” Cullen smiles, pleased with himself. “I might be mistaken, but I agree with Leliana. The Silver Fox is a woman-“

“Lady and Gentlemen!” Marquis Dufour summons from the ballroom’s entrance. “It is my pleasure to announce a majestic bard you all know and love…a woman is deadly with her mind, beauty, and blades. Please give your attention and admiration for…Lady Constance Elise Comtois!”

A round of applause and whistles sing through the air as the tonight’s organizer and performer waltzes into the ballroom. The bard enters with her hands in the air. She swirls around on her high heels in the middle of the ballroom, allowing her mermaid cut dress to pick up and halo her curvy body. Cullen’s eyes immediately flicker to her round, accented behind and perky breasts barely contained in a sleeveless top. Her butter blond hair lays in curls, loops, and a long braid over her bare shoulder, while a golden feathered and laced mask with dozens of rhinestones sparkle like her shapely gold dress. She curtsies and bows to her fans like she owns the world. Her jewelry fan flutters with each movement, catching everyone’s eye.

 _Ugh, everything wrong with Orlais in one person_ , Cullen comments to himself.

“Thank you, everyone, for attending this exclusive performance. I enjoy entertaining such a select group of fine people. Finally, I get to see each and every one of you personally. On stage, I sing my heart to you, but it is among you, I am truly at home.”

“Marry me, Constance!” A young nobleman calls with a bouquet.

“No! Me!”

Lady Comtois just giggles before wagging her fan at the admirers. “Now, now. Tonight is not about me, but the Inquisition and their continuous fight against an ancient darkspawn magister. It is them that deserve your wishes and pleas. Meet with the organization’s leaders tonight. I am but a humble bard, nothing like the blessed Inquisitor Adaar and her council of Thedas’ greatest minds and hearts!” The ladyship waves her lacy jeweled fan towards Cullen and the parlor.

More applause rings through the air as a servant hands the singer a champagne flute. “To the Inquisition!” The singer cries, toasting the organization. Sipping the fizzy wine, her strange explosive blue eyes meet Cullen by the parlor door. Instantly, Cullen heats up and sweats. The woman takes a step towards him, her gem-like orbs never leaving his flushed face. Before she speaks, she notices he is not alone. Leliana, Josephine, and Seleem have joined him by the door, while the Grand Duke Gaspard just huffs and rolls his eyes.

“Inquisitor Adaar, it is the greatest pleasure and honor to meet you.” The lady curtsies low like Seleem is Andraste herself. “Your successes ring throughout both Fereldan and Orlesian society like the Grand Cathedral’s brass bells. In this dark, confusing time, I am humble and honored to play a role in your war against Corypheus.”

“Thank you, Lady Comtois.” Seleem replies, glancing at Josephine every so often to make sure her etiquette is correct. “It is most gracious for you to arrange and entertain us this nice evening.”

“My voice is my strongest weapon. Just as Chantry mothers sing the Chant of Light, I ring long and far in grand praises for the Inquisition.” Lady Comtois’s sapphire-like eyes shift to Josephine. “Ambassador Montilyet, diplomats wept when you left your post here in Orlais. Now, your reach expands to all Thedosians. Your name is on everyone lips in every royal court. It is _wonderful_ to see you again.”

Josephine smiles and curtsies fluidly. “Thank you, my lady.”

A silent conversation floats between Leliana and the bard. “I hope my performance was to your satisfaction, Sister Nightingale. I know I will never reach the skill and range as you. I will always continue to try. Your opinion of me is so important to my heart and soul, chère Maîtresse.”[1] The red-headed spymaster says nothing in return, but her icy eyes soften seeing her former pupil again.

“And you must be Commander Cullen Rutherford.” The lady’s twinkling eyes scans his face with a mute smile. The intensity is too much for Cullen, who is still caught off guard by her beauty and presence. “My name is Lady Constance Elise Comtois, Good Ser. It is an honor to meet the Great Lion of Ferelden.”

Trying to be proper, Cullen does a military salute. “Milady.” Josephine throws him a look like he spat on her jeweled shoes, while the bard just smiles a little more. He cannot tell her react to his bow. She keeps that stolid half smile, slightly putting the commander on guard. Still, there is a song to her voice and a call to her blue eyes that pulls him towards her.

“I hope your meeting is going well?” Lady Comtois questions with a little hopeful lilt.

“I do not know why I ever _agreed_ to this…” Grand Duke Gaspard huffs, flipping his hand in the air. “We are going around in circles.”

“We are…disagreeing on terms.” Josephine explains with a slight frown. “The Inquisition is not in the position to fulfill the grand duke’s request. He finds inviting us to the Winter Ball will pull swing supporters away from his cause. If we promise to assist elevating him to emperor, he is more than willing to provide invitations. However, the Inquisition has stated our role is not directly politics, but to make sure Orlais does not fall into Corypheus’ hands.”

“And supporting me at the negotiation table _will_ protect the empire.” The grand duke adds, while scowling at the War Council. “No magister can best the greatest military in Thedas.” Cullen huffs at the comment, mentally remembering the multiple times the Orlesian army has been bested by the Fereldans over the last hundred years. “The chevaliers and soldiers only follow me. They and I wish to reclaim the throne to its rightful heir and not to a supercilious woman who can scheme herself into the crown but cannot _lead._ ”

Lady Comtois saunters forward, her expression stolid. However, Cullen has seen a similar twinkle in Leliana’s eye when a new goal develops. Getting dangerously close to the grand duke, the bard blinks nonchalantly like what he said was silly and dull. For a minor noble, she really dares to a high aristocrat. “Dear Grand Duke de Chalon, you must see it from the Inquisition’s position.” She curtsies in both honoring his noble status and convincing him to listen. “Their focus is on avoiding the end of the world. Orlais is just one part of a massive operation.” She barely places space between her finger and thumb to illustrate the point. “They wish to act like your sister as a moderator, not a warring conqueror as the Fereldans think of both you and your army. Come now, your supporters will _live_ through the night if you do invite the Inquisition. If not, Maker knows what will happen.” 

Lady Comtois’ volume rises so the gawkers behind Cullen hears the next statements. “ _I_ know if the Inquisition is absent, _I_ will avoid the party.”

A few of the grand duke’s people gasp and whisper to one another. Others right outside the parlor door hear the comment too. A hum of murmurs echo out into the ballroom. The message is clear: without the Inquisition present at Halamshiral, Lady Comtois believed peace will not be forged that night, and danger awaits anyone present.

“If the Inquisition really is a peace negotiation, why send their massive army across the empire? We must take _their_ word the Grey Wardens were in league with that ancient darkspawn monster? That’s unbelievable! They sent the great heroes of the world out of southern Thedas, so there is no one we can ask for clarity.” Grand Duke Gaspard growls before taking a long drink from his wineglass. For a man who is a Game champion, he loses his temper quickly when not getting his way.

“And as we stated the Grey Wardens were being influenced by a false Calling caused by a Nightmare demon.” Seleem hissed through her long teeth. She keeps her own temper in check, but her magic frosts the metal on their uniforms. “The Champion of Kirkwall, Sir Garrett Hawke of House Amell, _died_ in the Fade so Warden-Constable Stroud could lead the Grey Wardens from their tarnished path. It was with a heavy heart to exile them until after Corypheus’ death. However, I will not risk them or the people of Thedas if they fall under that monster’s influence again. To keep the wardens out of southern Thedas protects them from the Corypheus’ influence. Our army only acted against their specific adversaries, never Orlais.”

“And I am supposed to take your word…” The Orlesian rolls his eyes again. He begins to walk towards the exit. He believes his next slant is in Orlesian covers his words, but everyone including Seleem understand enough. “ _Une femme bœuf maléfique_ …”[2]

Before the Inquisitor could defend herself, her already massive hands glowing white with snow, the singer steps between both leaders. “Well, take my word, your Grace.” Lady Comtois stops the grand duke in his tracks holding up her gloved hand and fan snapping shut. Her masked scowl makes the man back away a few steps, while his supporters whisper to one another. The bard walks towards the exit, standing by Cullen. Her angelic voice carries throughout both rooms, but her electric blue eyes caress his right cheek. He keeps his attention focused on the grand duke, but he cannot help but feel like her voice reminds me of a deep hum in his psyche. “I have been thinking long and hard about my worldly contributions. I have never met a group of people as genuine and pure as those who lead the Inquisition. You all know I vet my patrons carefully. Over the last months, I have assisted the organization on minor personal matters. It is about time I apply myself _completely_.”

The bard stops her monologue. The adjacent rooms fall dead silence as she collects herself. Her unique sapphire eyes lock on Inquisitor Adaar, allowing Cullen to take a deep breath. She bows low, almost kneeling on the floor in her tight gown. “I wish you all to hear me now as I pledge myself to the Great Second Inquisition and offer a collaboration. I offer my abilities to the War Council as each individual sees fit for the foreseeable future. If they wish me to sing every bell until the end of this war, so be it. If they ask me to investigate every enemy or resister…” Her intense blue eyes focuses on the grand duke. “I will. If they require my swords for their military, I do so willingly.” She points to Cullen with her shut fan. “I believe in this cause.” Her glare focuses like a shot arrow at Gaspard. “You should too.”

Applause rings throughout the rooms as nobles clamor to offer resources, money, and gossip to the War Council. Each Inquisition member trades looks with Josephine the most shocked by the offer. “Truly, Lady Comtois? You have never approached someone yourself! Everyone comes to _you_ for help.”

“My conscience has nagged me for months.” The bard curtsies and hangs her head. Her buttery blonde hair glimmers in the candlelight. “As an Andrastian and lover of all that the Maker created in this world, I will not stand idly by any longer. I might not be your _complete_ agent,” Her eyes flick to Leliana just a second. “But, I will act on your wishes.”

“We accept your assistance, Lady Comtois.” Seleem smiles and nods to the singer. “We openly accept you into our organization and to Skyhold.”

By now, Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalon’s defenders counsel their leader, their faces fill with worry while searching the Inquisition’s leadership. The grand duke takes a few minutes to think, waving off their additional advice. While turned away, he straightens his coat and mask. Once back to rights, he pivots back to the Inquisition with his head held high.

“I would like to revise my stance, Inquisitor.” The nobleman swallows while meeting Seleem’s piercing blue eyes. His Orlesian slander is not quickly forgotten, “Lady Comtois does not join any organization and assist people in such a manner. She has always had patrons pursue her. We well know her selection of sponsors in Orlais. If she recognizes your cause worth her skills and voice, then I would be a fool to not invite you as my guests to the negotiation ball in Wintermarch.”

“We must be impartial, your Grace…” Seleem reminds the man, waiting for him to argue. The Qunari woman does not forgive insults to her race and abilities.

“It is for the best that you are. I hope by the end of that evening you see I am the rightful heir, but we must show you I am worthy of your support…just as Lady Comtois sees you worthy of hers.”

“Then we accept.” Seleem bows and salutes the usurper. “You are most gracious.”

With a coy smile, Lady Comtois holds up her champagne glass. “Now that business is concluded, let us drink and be merry!”

Everyone present lifts their glasses and drinks with the bard, her unique eyes turning to Cullen. Her lips curl while eying him, while her blond hair lays against her small flawless neck. Something in that stare feels strange to the commander like he is a wounded animal being stocked by a predator. No one stalks him. He adjusts himself, shaking off the initial bewitchment by her overly exposed yet perfect body in such finery. No, he wants nothing this woman proposes. Alas, it seems this bard will be part of his existence for the foreseeing future.

Maker help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] “Chère Maîtresse” is “dear Mistress” in French. I am using “mistress” in this context as a teacher or mentor. I know another word I could have used is L’instiutrice” or “la Directrice”, but their relationship was more sisterly and tutor. It could be also a slant towards Leliana for mistress’ other meanings. (Their relationship is love-hate as you will see). If my translation or uses are wrong, please let me know.
> 
> [2] The Grand Duke calls Seleem “an ox-woman maleficar”. I know Gaspard is very unlikely to say this insult, but if there has been pressure to get an invitation for a while, I think he would finally throw his hands up. Furthermore, after all the racism towards the Qunari and mages in Orlais, especially hearing what they call the Inquisitor during the ball, I don’t think this is that far-fetch.
> 
> So what you think of Lady Constance Elise Comtois? How will she fit into the Inquisition? How will Cullen and she get along? Let me know your thoughts down below in the comments! 
> 
> Thank you for sharing, kudos, and comments. You all are amazing!


	3. Chestnut:  Winning Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: “A Familiar Face” by Jesper Kyd (Assassin’s Creed: Revelations OST) & “Tik Tok” by Ke$ha  
> Example Composition: "Dove's Figary", First Recorded by John Playford
> 
> If you want to meet Kenna MacLachlen and visualize Constance's riding gear, check out this [link!](https://thejeeperswife.tumblr.com/post/612134081069727744/dm-chapter-3-fashion). Just note: Holliday Grainger is not Constance's face claim. Grainger is actually Patricia Trevelyan from my other stories. No, Constance is the beautiful and amazing Charlize Theron! Heart that woman!

* * *

_The Chestnut_ : Also known as “Dove’s Figary”, this was an English country dance for three pairs in a line. It was first published in _The [English] Dancing Master_ by John Playford and his successors. The instruction book expanded into multiple editions and three volumes.

* * *

Constance slows her prized Amaranthine Charger to a meander once passing under Skyhold’s portcullis. The spirited and restless animal immediately catches the eye of several groomers. The most intrigued individual must be the famous horse breeding Master Dennet Philips, who instantly walks towards them like a bewitched man. Dennet’s brown eyes widen seeing the mare of great breeding age that just entered the fortress. Several yards separates the new arrival and the horse master, who snatches an apple from a passing stable boy. Constance swears she notices him drool and nearly faint.

A second set of horse hoofs clomp up beside Constance, the rider’s scowl already burning thin hairs beneath the bard’s hooded head. “I see now why you chose the charger…” The heavily accented woman mutters under her breath.

“A Fereldan breed to win the eastern members’ hearts. Rare to earn the respect of lingering Orlesian nobles, despite her origins. Darker colored to contrast with the Frostbacks’ heavy snow, but bland enough to not give away our position if attack.” Constance’s deep blue eyes flick to her companion. “Plus, she matches my riding gear.” She waves to the brown, tan, grey, and white color of her furred collared cloak, dark brown riding pants, grey coat, and black boots and gloves. Nothing about her gear states she is nobility or even armed. Her duelist daggers and arming sword remain undetected under the layers. She just looks like just a middle-class traveler climbing the Frostbacks. All purposeful. “Is that what you mean, Kenna?”

“No, because it’s as irresponsible and careless as you on thigh mountain passes. A gallop across that wooden bridge? Idiot.” The bard’s traveling companion grunts when Constance just smirks and grunts. 

Kenna adjusts her metal helm to slide the visor up and reviews the lower courtyard. Both women note how the horse master hurries his stable staff to assist the ladies. “Did I see you actually flinch when your charm failed against the first and second security point?”

“You saw no such thing.” Constance counters, her mind already assessing the inner castle’s weaknesses and climbing routes. “I do have to say the commander trained his soldiers to follow orders. My appeals alone did not assuage them.”

“You are not in Orlais anymore.” Kenna informs her companion like Constance’s hair color matches her ‘lacking’ brains. “Your twinkling eyes won’t make people melt. After all, ice looks blue the thicker it is…”

“That is why I am here.” Constance admits, only dismounting when the horse master is only a few feet from their position. “A cold world under a blue sunny sky…It is called _Skyhold_ after all?”

The bard instantly shifts personas. She frowns and looks nervous. The horse master reaches her position, his eyes shifting between her ‘concerned’ expression and the excellent mount. “Good Ser, I hope you may help me?” She bows at the waist like a commoner would do to someone who recognizes a person of higher standing. Her voice embraces a Highever accent and draw, something familiar and welcoming. She avoids his name, information she is not supposed to know yet. Although, she recalls at least thirty people already in the courtyard. Many people here she knows by reputation alone. It does help her early communications with Leliana identified who joined their ranks and will benefit the institution.

Horse Master Dennet huffs, but his eyes sparkle at the mare. His voice is gruff, but with a cheerful touch in the upper tones. “I can point you in the right direction.”

Constance’s informant stated the older man is typically aloof and does not wish to interact with others. He preferred his horses’ company. He resisted joining the Inquisition for months. If it was not for Madam de Fer’s off comment about seeking out Orlesian masters, he would still be in Redcliffe with his spunky daughter and grumpy wife. Evidently, seeing the Charger brings out his younger self. Interesting.

“The Maker smiles at me today!” Constance claps her gloves once. “I am a new pledge to the Inquisition.” She waves to her mare beside her. “My mare is no true war horse. I had heard a famous horse master oversees the stables here. I hope to gift the master my mare of prime breeding age for a proper mount more aligned with my new war-time duties. No one in Orlais even considers such a mare. They find us both too much to handle.” She winks at the older man. His dark skin flushes a little.

Kenna huffs once while dismounting her Fereldan Forder. The Starkhaven woman knows when Constance ‘sparkles her sugar’ as she called it. The no-nonsense red head never involves herself in Constance’s dealings. She just waits until the bard finishes her tomfoolery. The warrior knows it all has a purpose. What that intention is most of the time does not matter to her. She would rather stay away just to save herself from the usual consequences.

“That’s because no bloody Orlesian knows true beauty!” Dennet exclaims, offering his hand to the mare. He waits while the horse determines a friend and accept his attentions. “Horse Master Dennet.” He nods to Constance. “You are just _giving_ away this fine lady?”

Constance shrugs and sighs dramatically. “She was a gift. Knowing the history of the breed, I did not have the heart to use her on a regular basis. So many died during the Thaw that to ride her hard across Thedas is not right. My role here is to be determined, but I still expect to travel often. I do not have the heart to see such a kindred spirit rushed everywhere when she could be better as a mother and breed advocate.”

Constance can tell by Dennet’s glistening eyes she has him. “You are a woman who truly understands their plight. If you are so willing to part with her, I will assure you she will have a fine life worthy of her breed. She can become a broodmare to many fowls. She will bring Amaranthine Chargers back from rarity. I already have a strong stud which will father her many foals.”

“She has already had one fowl, who grew mighty and tall last spring. She was a dutiful mother. I have no doubt she will continue to do so.” Constance assures, combing her gloved fingers through the mare’s mane. “I will part with her, but I ask for your assistance on finding a mount fitting to my travel demands and whatever the Inquisition directions me.”

Dennet nods. “Absolutely, Mistress…?”

“Connie Frye.” The bard smiles and tilts her head. Recognition flickers in the horse master’s eyes, but he does not comment. He just watches her gobsmacked and giddy. “I trust your judgement, Master Dennet. Your horse cavalry marched the Inquisition’s army across all terrains to Adamant. No Orlesian horse master can say the same.”

Dennet actually chuckles. “Keep your faltering, Mistress Connie. You will have a grand mount.” He pats the mare’s neck, who now nudged his shoulder for treats. Dennet offers the mare the apple he snatched earlier. She takes it happily, chewing loudly beside them. “Come and see me after you settle in. As for this lady,” He takes the reins. “I will make her a wonderful home.”

Constance smiles, waving to her small pack attached to the saddle. “I will inform the ambassador you have my belongings. When I know where my quarters will be, they will go to you.”

“Of course. You will find Ambassador Montilyet’s office the second to last door on the left off the grand hall. Good day, Mistress Connie Frye.” The older man begins calling to his groomers, not allowing them to take the reins but to prepare a stall for his new prize and Kenna’s horse.

Constance glances at her companion. “Always make a friend with the horse master.” Kenna rolls her brown eyes. “When you need to make a speedy escape, the horse master can determine if you make it out of a city dead or alive.” 

The Songbird of Orlais begins her walk towards the main keep, a slight grin on her face. She keeps her hood up, appreciating the bit of anonymity. It will not take long for the Orlesian visiting nobles to discover she has arrived. “Let’s explore our new home, Kenna.”

The Starkhaven shield maiden follows behind, her hand always on her basket-hilt sword on her hip. “You’ve never had a home, ‘Stance.” 

“Harsh.”

“You don’t the meaning of that word…”

* * *

“…Leliana, you cannot be comfortable with a bard having free reign of Skyhold?!” A rough husky baritone thunders through the ambassador’s secondary door. 

Constance always acts as a mood thermometer to determine how icy temperaments will be before entering a room. Constance listens to the harsh tones beyond the door, her sapphire eyes studying the side stairwell down into a secondary dining hall by the kitchens. She studies the shadows, determining they must be servants setting up the midday meal. 

As usual, her presence raises eyebrow and tempers. Is it Wednesday already…?

“It is a security nightmare! I’m surprised you’re not barring her from the Frostbacks! We don’t have the men available to keep this Orleisan magpie from restricted areas.”

Constance slightly grins at the Fereldan commander’s assessment of her singing ability. He insults without his knowledge that she lingers nearby. It is honest and without reprieve. No wonder the aristocrats called him unrefined and blunt.

The slanders do not rattle Constance. She heard far worse throughout her life. Such slanders slides off her shoulder like slippery ice and smashes on the stone floors beneath her boots. She typically shuts the yapping down by either with skill or by death. Killing such a handsome man would be a waste for many reasons. The highest reason would be devoiding Thedas of the most handsome Adonis ever produced. No, she will just have to win him over.

“Ease-dropping is not a great first impression…” Kenna grumbles from her leaning post right beside the first entry door.

“Good thing you are not doing it.” Constance perks a brow, while glancing over her furry shoulder. Her lips barely move; her voice silent as a mouse so only her companion hears.

“This is why I never _played_ with you, ‘Stance.” Kenna confesses with arms crossed over her breast plate. “I’m only here to offer my blade to the Inquisition.”

“And here I thought it was for my friendship.” Constance refutes, stepping back to whisper to her associate moping and scanning the great hall.

“You don’t have friends.” Kenna spits with silted brown eyes. “Didn’t you describe such relations too cumbersome and messy for your employment?”

“Fine, you’re an appreciated acquaintance.” Constance gives a small fake smile.

Kenna holds her gloved hand to her breast plate. In a bland voice, she drones, “I’m honored.”

Constance waves her leather gloved hand, returning to the door. She realizes she missed half of Sister Nightingale’s response. “…I wouldn’t be in my profession if I did not know how to navigate other bards. Lady Comtois rewarded us many benefits collaborating with the Inquisition. She has an interest in us as she does against Corypheus. What that is can only be determined by having her close. It is a dance between bards, always waiting and watching on what will happen. If her actions are not in the Inquisition’s interest, _I_ will handle her personally.”

 _By having the Nightingale’s blade across her neck after weeks of torture_ , Constance mentally completes. If anything less would be a great insult. Constance wonders if Leliana still prefers ‘the Rack’ or resorted to ‘the Pear of Anguish’ since establishing the Inquisition. The seneschal always liked diversifying her torture techniques after that Hasmal debacle. 

Leliana’s information techniques are legendary, but her cold, calculated mind and heart has won her no friends over the last five years. Regarding singing, some Orlesian considers Constance’s voice better than the Inquisition’s spymaster, but Constance knows that is a lie. The Nightingale’s devious actions soured people’s hearts and minds to her angelic soprano. Yes, Leliana protected her mentor and friend. That was all that mattered when Justinia became Divine. However, it was such harshness that made Constance turn from her once educator and embrace Lord Trevelyan’s bard code of conduct.

“I doubt it will come to that.”

Constance grins hearing Lady Montilyet’s civilized voice. “We have only two months before the negotiation ball. We are terribly behind and defenseless to what happens in court, all because of whoever keeps intercepting our imperial correspondence. Lady Comtois live that life for the last five years. We are in desperate need for her advice and direction. Leliana, I know you will watch her, but she will unlikely act as crude as you might believe. I ensured the Inquisitor that wherever we place Lady Comtois will be in respect to all branches. Commander, I would highly avoid such a _boorish_ attitude in her ladyship’s presence. Yes, she is everything you find wrong with Orlais, but she too has warmed the hearts of many Fereldans.”

“You mean their beds.”

Constance huffs and rolls her electric blue eyes. The man figures her a whore. Evidently, he forgets his own long list of fuck buddies spanning continents, specifically at the Blooming Rose. He just never knew such women were also Constance’s extended contacts. If either person wishes to question who is more sexual promiscuous, Constance would recommend he get checked for all venereal diseases first before he opens that beautiful scarred mouth. It nags her time to time that a man’s list of sexual partners could be as long as a royal decree, but a woman’s single sexual encounter makes her a slut. Such sexist barbarism.

Then why does the Songbird of Orlais wish to add her name to his list of conquests? Be conquered and tamed by such rough hands and harden body. Taken hard from behind. Bitten and clawed like a submissive lionness…

Ugh, Constance. Get a grip. It has just been awhile. 

He’s handsome, nothing more.

“I meant her ability to weave into both societies.” Josephine scolds with a heavy accent. “I believe we need to discover first what she meant by _collaboration_. While she stated we could use her in our military, spy network, and social discussions, Lady Comtois made sure everyone present knew this was a partnership, not a new agent.”

“Which makes her involvement with us that much more disconcerting.” Commander Rutherford grumbles. His leather and metal clothing rattles from his likely uneasy swaying. His constant moves and gritting teeth told Constance immediately in the ballroom he suffered from chronic pain and greatly disliked being in crowds. It is not unheard of for a Fereldan warrior, but a major red flag in the Game. No wonder Gaspard gave him barely a thought and dismissed him as useless and not worth his time.

“But not surprising.” Leliana concludes in her soprano voice. “We will just have to see what her conditions are.”

Constance knows this was her time to enter. Her calf-leather gloves taps against the door three times to the tune of the _Chant of Transfiguration_. She waits a moment. People shuffle inside. “Come in.” Josephine calls in her beautiful Antivan accent.

The bard waves behind her. Kenna steps away from her guarding position. Constance grasps the door ring and pushes. The heavy castle door takes a little shoulder shove. It makes sneaking around difficult, a simple assassin barrier. As the door widens, Constance walks in confidently, slowly lowering her cloak hood so her brown beret and braided butter blonde hair glimmers in the stain glass sunshine. “I hope I am not intruding. Your horse master directed me here.” She bows lower with her right leg behind the other as her knees bent. “Lady Constance Elise Comtois, reporting to the War Council.”

Josephine yelps, her hands on her chest. She quickly regains herself, hurrying around the desk. “Lady Comtois! We were not expecting you for another week!”

Constance stands back up and begins undoing her gloves’ wrist belts, her actions to imply she just arrived and no dallied behind the door for five minutes. Leliana likely knows she was listening. If the spymaster did not want the conversation overheard, they would have convened in their special soundproof war room. The spymaster wanted to hear the skepticism to keep Constance in line. After all, Constance did not disguise her movements at the checkpoints, thus that ‘flinch’ Kenna mentioned earlier. She knows Leliana’s agents reported back her travel progress as quickly as her ravens flew.

“Lady Montilyet, I always arrive unexpectedly.” Constance chimes with twinkling sapphire eyes. “It keeps enemies on their toes. How are you to plan an attack when the margin spans six weeks? I am a leaf on the wind. See how I soar! Just as the wind brushes leaves across Val Royeaux’s golden roads, no one can predict where they will land.”

“Maker, please forgive us.” The ambassador looks like she might have a panic attack. “We began to receive your belongings the last few days, but your room is not ready. Your lady-in-waiting only began organizing your trunks and prepared for your arrival three days ago.”

“My new rooms likely in the high-standing guest quarters?” Constance guesses with a knowing smile.

“Of course! A woman of your position and influence should have the greatest accommodations available.”

Constance waves to stop the woman’s worry. “No need. The nobility arriving soon who hear I arrived can have such finery. I am more curious if you have any guest rooms in your new tavern?”

Josephine nearly faints at the implications. Leliana giggles beside her friend before turning away, those icy eyes already reading Constance’s intentions. All the while, the commander remains turned away, his hand combing those blond waves with his gloved hands. A flushed tone colors his magnificent Fereldan features.

“Surely you would prefer somewhere more refined?” The Antivan’s accent wavers at the idea of putting a noble in the _pub_!?

“Lady Montilyet, as you know, my nobility comes from a little known ancient family tree. If was not for Lord Philliam Trevelyan’s bestowed gift as his heir of land and title in Orlais, no Orlesian noble would even glance my way.” 

Lady Comtois glances at Commander Rutherford, trying to make himself as small as possible. His face blushes more. He keeps rubbing his neck. Evidently, her sudden arrival during his slant comments caught him off guard. Or is he just bashful? He shied away from her side at the performance. Surely, she did not revolt him so much to not even meet her gem-like gaze. 

Her ladyship continued her explanation. “My rise to fame originated in those same taverns and pubs as your Herald’s Rest. The people here _need_ hope and happiness. The lower classes—the workers, soldiers, and servants—are who allow the Inquisition to run like a well-oiled dwarven machine. Being in the tavern gives that boost, while offering me a little reprieve from noble fans who love to flock like wild geese nipping at my expensive heels.”

Leliana actually chuckles, her gloved hand rubbing beneath her chin. Yes, Leliana sees exactly why Constance wishes to stay out of the main keep. The spymaster and the bard share looks, a silent conversation of boundaries and understanding. The longer that staring continues, the more the Nightingale relaxes that her network and securities are her own and not under threat.

“Lady Comtois, I understand your _personal_ reasons for such accommodations, but I greatly disagree.” Command Rutherford barks, stepping forward. His nervous and embarrassment leaves his face when he wears his commander persona and templar presence.

Josephine and Leliana both throw him a look. Their shared glares must happen often. Evidently, the commander enjoys disagreeing with the women and misses when something is in their best interests. Oh, the Orlesian Inquisition haters will twist him like a dirty, oily rag if that continues at the Winter Palace. 

Constance just blinks, her mysterious stoic smile never wavering. “Why not, Commander?”

“It will be a constant distraction for the army. Orlesians will pester the patrons until you show yourself. There will be conflict between the groups. Furthermore, if you think your fanning masked club will accost you in the keep, you underestimate the mobs that also know your name between the military officers.”

Constance tilts her head, her butter blonde hair falling out of her beret. “Have you informed your officers of my presence?”

The commander acts insulted by her question. “Of course! Someone of your…background is an important guest and informant…” His amber eyes flashes to his fellow advisors. They stare him down. “…w-w-w-who should be protected and respected.” He coughs a few times into his hand. He rubs his neck again.

The bard takes a step towards the armored man. He instantly reaches for his broadsword. He sees her as a dangerous threat. Even a knight stills his movements when overly aware. Peculiar. “Did _you_ know my name prior to the opera, Commander?”

The ex-templar shuffles and clears his throat. “I do not associate with your social _circles_.”

“Does the name ‘Connie Frye’ ring any bells?”

Commander Rutherford’s whiskey eyes widen. “The Wandering Whimsical Connie Frye, the hurdy-gurdy gleeman …Many Fereldans consider the musician a major performer who uplifted the post-Blight populace. My older sister Mia watched one of her tavern performances when my family first settled in South Reach. I’ve never encountered the merry minstrel though. She seemed to disappear a year after the Thaw.”

Leliana smirks and steps forward. She waved to Constance, “Then let me have the pleasure to introduce you.” Constance bows again in a more Fereldan style seen in lower courts and among military personnel. There is a bow for everything.

The Adonis’ amber eyes balloon. “ _You!?_ How…But you’re so…”

“Orlesian?” Constance finishes.

“ _Yes!_ ”

Kenna chuckles behind Constance. As usual, the Starkhaven shield maiden keeps herself a small as possible while Constance digs herself out of whatever hole someone throws her in today. She leans against a far wall, looking like she needs some peanuts while watching the show.

By now, Josephine’s composition wavers to a point she might throw her clipboard at the commander’s head and light his precious hair on fire. Constance needs these people to like and respect her. Time to set some misconceptions straight. 

“Commander, as I have stated before, my heritage is ancient spanning back several generations. Its roots begin during Emperor Drakon’s time. I spent my time at the University of Orlais researching it. Lord Trevelyan, my guardian when I was child, sponsored me at the university initially. They frowned at me for being a nobody who was pretty and talented.” Constance purposefully frowns and exhales like she actually cared about those idiots.

“I did not know why Lord Philliam took me as a ward. He trained me as a bard, his own profession after leaving his Ostwick home decades ago. He gave me the tools and knowledge to I uncovered my family tree. If I was not a noble, I could not wear Orlesian mask or allowed so freely at court. Prior to knowing my birthright, I felt I was missing something about myself…” She twists her finger together to look ashamed. It seems the man responses to show emotions, not blank stoic masks. Another red flag for the Winter Palace. “…so I might have run away to Ferelden. I was a rebellious lively young woman who wished to sing and play for the downtrodden-“

“-Only back then, my lady?” Kenna snips behind Constance.

Constance ignores the comment and continues. “For over a year, I entertained the only way I knew how. I sang at all establishments, meeting the worst impacted people suffering after the Blight. I used my duelist skills defending families while bandits and rapists preyed on refugees. I learned a great deal about the world…and discovered I could do some good beyond playing as some silly noble’s personal bard assassin.” She rolls her electric blue eyes and flips her hand. She barely touches the commander’s fur mantle with her limp removed glove. He flinches and steps away. 

Oh, that is not good. He struggles when encroached into his personal space. While the flinch is understandable, his glare and slight shaking screams problems the aristocracy will eat like vultures over a carcass.

“I refused to be a tool for murder for another noble’s gains. I returned to my guardian a more experienced woman filled with inspiration. I composed day and night. Lord Philliam saw this and promoted my entry into the University of Orlais. There, I discovered my nobility roots linked to many Thedosian aristocracies. Suddenly, I was _someone_. My voice rose me to stardom in noble’s salons. Sister Nightingale left to assist Divine Justinia. Leliana directed me towards some of her former patrons…and people in great need. So,my heart beats like an Orleisan bard, but my soul craves to think beyond herself and for the people who first reminded me I am one of the lucky ones. _That’s_ why I wish to stay at the tavern.”

The former knight looks taken aback by the explanation. The information discussed is all common knowledge. So, it is not like Constance gave away anything terrible or damaging. Likely, Leliana gave him a dossier, and he refused to glance at it. He better have a care if he wishes to survive the royal ball.

Commander Rutherford nods. “My apologies, Lady Comtois, I spoke out of turn. I am in charge of your safety while at Skyhold. I also must consider the safety and order of this keep and our military.”

“Then our intentions are the same.” Constance meets Leliana’s icy orbs. “I can assure you I can manage my ‘fans’ high and low. I am quite capable in taking care of myself. I know you will follow me. I do not think anyone is _not_ watched under the Nightingale’s roof. I welcome your agents to show I mean no ill will towards the Inquisition. The Inquisitor’s protection and support is the Number One Priority.”

“I am relieved you share in our tenants, Lady Comtois.” Josephine smiles and bows a little.

Constance waves to the lingering red head by the door. “In good faith, I would like to introduce a companion I know well. Meet Kenna MacLachlen, a Starkhaven native and a well-accomplished shield maiden and combat archer. Kenna was in Jadar when I passed by. I discovered she intended to pledge her skills to the Inquisition. We agreed to travel together.”

Kenna salutes and bows. “Commander Rutherford, we met briefly in Kirkwall when the Starkhaven templars came and assisted the city-state.”

The commander rubs his stubble chin. “You worked with Guard Captain Aveline, right? A temporary city guard who protected the Lowtown orphans from prowling slavers. Yes, I remember you. People confused Aveline and you all the time. So, you wore your family tartan to distinguish yourself.”

Kenna lifted her cape and shows her kilt and hanging shoulder tartan. “I continue to do so. The guard captain is a legend everywhere I go.”

That Fereldan smirks while rubbing his scruffy jaw nearly makes Constance melt into a puddle. Her whole body craves this man. Leliana catches the brief lapse in the Orlesian’s fake smile and silently warns her. 

The commander nods and salutes the shield maiden. “Your skill differs greatly from the city captain though. I would like to speak after this about your role here. If I remember correctly, your shield skill allows smaller people and women to put down brutes thrice their sizes. Ground combat, right?”

Kenna chuckles, the first time Constance hears the sound since encountering her acquaintance on the road days ago. “That is one way to say it. I look forward to our meeting, Commander.” The Starkhaven salutes with her fist over her heart.

While their discussion occurs, Constance thinks, while ignoring the slight sting this man trusts her companion more than his new ally. Her ears listen to each word, while her mind finds ways to sooth everyone presence. “I think I have a solution to your appearance issue, Ambassador. Is there a noble guest room that would allow me quick access to the tavern? Small, just needed to change, sleep some nights, and wash myself privately?”

Josephine turns to her desk, pulls out a small map, and reviews her information for a moment. “Yes, in the southwest tower by the garden. A new small room designed for a squire or minor lord. While not matching your station, you could use the ramparts past the mage tower to access both locations. Why?”

Leliana already catches on. “She wishes to move between her two known names. ‘Connie Frye’ stays in the tavern, while Lady Comtois stays in the noble guest rooms. Orlesian aristocrats will see her enter the guest room as her ladyship, but she can leave as a servant or someone not connected to her noble persona to live in the tavern. That way she can still occupy the space and leave her noble fans in the keep. There will be no disruption between the locations. No Orlesian noble will enter the tavern if they have no reason to do so.” Her icy eyes flash back to Constance. “That will only last for a little while, Constance.”

The bard’s cryptic smile grows wider. Oh, how her former teacher and she thinks alike, but execute actions differently. “Not if I am not here all the time.” 

All three advisors study her ladyship. “It must bother you all that I did not completely pledge to the Inquisition.” The commander grimaces, Leliana stays her stoic self, and Josephine perks a brow. “I wish I could, but I have other matters beyond my role here, unfortunately. Nothing that could harm the Inquisition, I promise. If anything, it should cover you if a conflict _arises_.” Her dark blue eyes meet Leliana’s orbs with unspoken words. Leliana blinks, the message received. “There will be times I will need to leave Skyhold. During such trips, I will gather more intelligence, guidance, and military assistance, if you wished. I wish I could tell you more.” Constance references the Chantry lay sister with bowed head. “I figure your spymaster already suspects what it is.”

“I know everything, Constance.” Leliana smiles creepily.

“Thus why we live, _non, Maîtresse_.” The Orlesian bard giggles behind her hand. 

Mentally, Constance calculates how much Leliana _thinks_ she knows. There is a reason Leliana vowed revenge when Constance left her tutorage. Leliana admires Constance’s skills, but hates there are facts beyond her reach. That has been their way since the night they met a decade ago. The Nightingale allows the bard here because she hopes to clarify Constance’s secrets for leverage. 

_Do try, Left Hand._

Constance assures the other council members. “It will only be for a few days at most. You will be all in the know when this occurs. I will work with everyone’s schedules, but some matters are time sensitive. It is these matters that has kept me from pledging to the Inquisition beforehand.”

The commander glances at Leliana before those honey eyes study the musician again. “It is not for us to decide. The Inquisitor will need to clear this, but she left for the Storm Coast this morning. You cannot discuss this at all?”

Kenna strides forward, thumbing to Constance. “I learned a long time ago, it is better to not know everything happening in Constance’s web of ice and horror, Commander Rutherford.” The Starkhaven warrior nudges her chin towards the spymaster. “If your seneschal knows and has not run her through yet, she knows it not essential information.”

“It’s better for the Inquisition not to know officially. Plausible deniability.” Leliana reinforces quickly, her eyes drilling into the commander to not press further. Yes, this is a bard dance of the age. “We will discuss such activities _later_ , Lady Comtois.”

“I have no doubt.” Constance bows her head. “If that is all, I will let you return to your discussion about my Orlesian and Fereldan bedmates, Commander. Give the Pearl’s Lilac and the Rose’s Harmony my love.” She winks and smirks at him. She snaps her fingers. “Or was that Danielle at the Spoiled Princess? I guess the phrase ‘a lady at every port’ holds true…You sow your seeds wide and far.”

The ‘respectable’ Commander Rutherford turns scarlet, eyes bugging out of his skull. Josephine first gasps, then giggles into her hand. Leliana nods to her former student with a wicked grin. Such actions should not be encouraged, but the spymaster needs some new teasing material about the stiff ex-templar.

Clearing her throat but chuckles again, Josephine waves to Lady Comtois as both newcomers turned to the office door. “I will have your lady bring your noble belongings to the tower, and your horse’s packs sent to the tavern? Correct?”

Constance kisses her fingers and blows the affection at the ambassador. “Always a treasure. _Adieu_.” She quickly exits. Her first day in Skyhold turns out better than she expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you all got the flip side of the situation. Constance can be icy cold, but has good intentions. She also enjoys reminding haters about their own bedroom sins. ;) Can you imagine the off comments around the war table after this?! Leliana, Josephine, and Seleem are going to have fun!
> 
> So, what do you think of this first look at Constance? She is an icy bitch, but her profession forces her to hide and keep secrets. It contradicts with Cullen's blunt and straight-forward attitude. Constance understands why he suffered at the opera performance...and why he will stumble at the Winter Palace. How do you think this will get resolved? How does two people who are so opposite and despise one another end up lovers? What do you think about Constance and Leliana's "relationship"? 
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments!


	4. Furlana:  Chameleon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: “Main Attraction” by Jeremy Renner & “Adam Lay Ybounden” by Faun  
> Composition Example: Johann Sebastian Bach’s "Orchestral Suite No. 1 in C Major: IV. Forlane”
> 
> Soooo....this is not my best written chapter. I have rewritten it three times, and I am still not happy. There is a great deal to cover to move the story along and set some groundwork. It just feels off, but still fitting. Forgive me for mistakes. If I touch it more, it will get worse. Ugh. My brain right now...
> 
> Also, if my French/Orlesian is wrong, please let me know so I can properly fix it. I never took French, so my knowledge lacks greatly.

* * *

The Furlana: A fast-paced Italian folk dance with Slavonic origins. It originally was a single courtship dance that became a social dance once introduced to French theater and balls. Example Composition: Johann Sebastian Bach’s Orchestral Suite No. 1 in C Major: IV. Forlane”

* * *

“…So, I told Duchess Dampierre why settle for an overly expensive treat when a _specific shaped_ produce can fulfill the same purpose.”

The dozen masked noblewomen chuckle and fan themselves to wash away their blush. They lounge around Vivienne’s balcony, while ignoring the rest of Skyhold. Each silly court tale gets more scandalous than the last. _She_ just sits with that cryptic small grin across her pink plump lips.

Every room Cullen enters, _she_ is there.

“Thank you for throwing that drunk out, Mistress Frye!” An elven servant who cleans the Herald Rest’s tables praises with tears in her eyes.

 _She_ tilts her head. Her bobbed blonde hair tickles her neck by her puffy sleeve tunic and patchwork skirts. She stands up from the card game with Varric and Sera, nudging the elven servant aside. “Here, let me teach you a little trick that keeps their griming hands off you…”

Sera’s elven ears listen, her freckles popping out with that wicked grin. She knows the new minstrel and she will be pranking the disgusting sod tonight. The elf loves she has someone new to play with around Skyhold. 

Every corner the commander turns, _she_ is coming the other way.

“…Have you heard Lady Comtois sing that Antivan lullaby?” An officer whispers during the morning meeting in Cullen’s tower.

“Sí, I felt like I’m home again!” The lieutenant replies with a beaming expression. “I wrote my abuela about it. I miss her singing it while I fell asleep as a child. Hearing Lady Comtois sing…it chases Adamant’s traumas away.”

Every word falling from everyone’s lips is _her_ name.

Lady Constance Elise Comtois haunts every aspect of Cullen’s Inquisition life. There is nowhere he can escape that she has already touched, molded, and refined with her worldly brand. Much like the smell of lyrium hanging in the mage tower’s air, _she_ pollutes the fortress with her alluring desire.

“…Scenario: You’re invited to a Nevarran count’s grand ball themed after the Archon’s Satinalia festivities. They want to promote your necromancy knowledge to the Mortalitasi. You must bring a guest and only Solas is available. How will you dress him?” Lady Comtois questions, dripping wine off her index finger. It lands on the sleeping elf’s shiny bald head below.

Cullen stumbles on the woman lyrium-personified lounging with the fortress’ resident Tevinter mage. They lounge together between her daily activities. Dorian loves having someone new to whine about the castle’s library and lack of spicy food. He sees her as his brand of refinery and culture. 

Cullen listens in their exchange from the rotunda’s stairwell. He cannot help but listen for a moment. Dorian and Vivienne despise the hedge mage’s clothing.

Dorian hums to himself, his finger encircling his goblet. “An infused Vyrantium samite suit with a silken nether cloth hat because the death mages will think him a bleached skeleton. They’ll think him dead anyway.” The two titter together. Cullen moves quickly past their balcony, rolling his amber eyes. 

However, like when the commander passed through the grand hall or walks out the tavern backdoor, those sapphire eyes meet his ignoring gaze, pulling his head aside. He sees her fake small smile and analyzing electric eyes that now haunt his daydreams. He mentally calls those curled lips a ‘painted smile’ because they always seem frozen in that position no matter who she speaks with or entertains. Leliana uses the same expression at specific moments, but not as frequently as plastered across her ladyship’s face. 

Each time their eyes meet, those electric blue spheres shine like a siren’s beauty sitting on a coral rock. Her leg bounces across her knee like a long fin to fit her alluring hourglass body. Her cheeks blush perfectly to highlight her symmetric bone structure, making the whole package feel like a marble statue… _exquisitely eerie._

Then there are the moments where he turns a corner in the hallway and she is sashaying his way. She waves to him and opens her mouth, but Cullen leaves to avoid a discussion. When she walks to his tower, Cullen finds the longest route back to avoid her at all cost. 

Most days, her breasts lay under lace, while her corset nearly spills the flesh over the edge. Each heel step towards him makes the bosom bounce, telling the commander how supple and natural they are. Many women he has bedded stuffed their bodices to have a similar effect. However, Lady Comtois’ bosom is all her own, but not _too_ big for her frame. She is perfect, a talented artist wet dream. 

The Fereldan’s mind conjures what those breasts will feel in his rough grasp and how her pink nipples will react to his rough suckling. If she is walking away from him, his whiskey stare admires how her hips sway and those heels stiffen her firm behind. It does not matter if her ladyship wears leather tight pants when she plays in the tavern or layers of silk while she sings for diplomats. In his office alone following such encounters causes him ignore his work for a few minutes and imagine that behind bouncing while his shaft impales her repeatedly.

No, Cullen will not give into the cravings. They have not left him since that night at the marquis’ estate. Seeing her again a week later in Josephine’s office reaffirms there is something deeply troubling about Lady Comtois. Yes, she looked nothing like her masked noble persona in that tight riding gear in Fereldan-inspired clothing. Yet, she is an Orlesian bard. She threatens too much.

Yet, no one else recognizes the danger. Like a chameleon, she blends into every environment and populace within Skyhold. They only see what she displays through her alternating personas. Neither group identifies she is the same woman they hear chanting Chantry ballads during morning service or dances jigs with the Chargers. 

Yes, her clothing is different and matches whatever group she interacts with at the moment. Yes, she acts like those around her. She even somehow changes the length of her so her Connie Frye life has a bob and her ladyship’s hair is long and flowing in every silly feathered hat and mask she wears. Alas, like a chameleon, she lies in wait for her prey to come near before she strikes.

The commander sees everything from his third-floor perch, while drinking his tankard of ale. Once again, Cullen thinks he timed it she would not appear in the tavern tonight. Just thirty minutes before, Lady Comtois was at a dinner party with an Orlesian delegation.

Alas, there she is in Fereldan clothing. The soldiers dance and sing along with her tunes. Everyone is none the wiser of her daily deeds. 

As always, _she_ meets his eyes instantly during her duet with Maryden Halewell. The entertainers sing ‘Adam Lay Ybounden’ together, dancing with their lutes. They each take turns between stanzas for one to be the lead and the other being the accompaniment and harmonizing. She even hands a stable boy a tambourine to play along. No matter if Cullen stays in shadow, she knows exactly where he is at every given moment. Her enchanting voice pulls him towards the stairs, while her eyes are like wiggling fingers calling him to those ocean depths. 

It takes all the blond warrior’s will to break away and return to his tower office. These emotions are just the lyrium cravings and the aftereffects of stopping lyrium. As the drug leaves his system, more emotions and urges plague his mind and soul. 

There is a reason why templars act unfeeling. Lyrium simmers all feelings, making them difficult to crack during long guard shifts. Many Circle mages called them heartless when actuality the indifference allows them to act justly during a major crisis…such as a blood mage rebellion. Cullen shudders. However, losing those humanizing qualities created many issues that ultimately led to the Templar-Mage War.

Now, being off the addictive substance for six months, all those emotions came back like a tidal wave. For that time, Cullen mainly struggled with his past. The lyrium kept his fears and horrors at bay. After the Inquisitor ordered him to never resume lyrium, Cullen finally feels comfortable despite the near disaster in the marquis’ ballroom surrounded by all those grabby gawkers. Now, the heightened libido and other side effects plague his recovery. It has been decades since he has _felt_ so much at once. 

To find sexual pleasure as a commander is difficult. No tavern wench or other doey-eyed woman satisfy him. As the Inquisition’s commander, it could be a political and social nightmare. Leliana warned him in Haven that his previous sexual freedom cannot continue, including his established ‘women at every port.’

Like sleeping with an Orlesian bard would be a wise choice…

In Kirkwall, he could scratch such sexual urges at the Blooming Rose. When lyrium doses was reduced at the Gallows, the whore house braced itself when nearly the entire Order knocked on its door. The madams charged higher rates when rumors swirled that a lyrium shipment was delayed on Trevelyan ships. Thugs and Carta who worked with the Rose used to steal Order lyrium and worked in league with the Rose to create shortages. It benefitted both businesses.

Cullen wrinkles his nose, remembering the Orlesian bard’s off comment about his preferred whores. He should have known she heard his wicked words. She hears everything like Leliana. That is why every time she pursued him in the halls, he turned around and ran the opposite direction. How much more does she want to belittle him?

When finishing his ale, the commander notices Iron Bull approach the bard. The Ben-Hassrath picked her out immediately when she registered as Connie Frye. While not a redhead, he saw her sex appeal instantly…and her deadliness. After her first night at the Rest, the Qunari spy sent a report to Leliana and the Inquisitor. He admitted it took him a while to suspect her, and that he was still just going by a slight hunch. The Qunari spy knew there was something _off_ about the minstrel, but actually questioned his skills because he could not point it out. Since then, he watches her every hip bumps, both attracted and suspicious. Leliana told him the truth just to avoid a conflict.

Cullen makes for the back exit when he realizes the Qunari dared the bard to a drinking contest. His glares focus on how the man touches this woman who seems to have bewitched him like the other Inner Circle members. Sera races to the bar for shots, excited about the challenge. Varric follows the pair to a long table, writing in his betting book the first challenges and everyone’s wagers.

So, when the commander finds a huge gathering around the training yard that next morning, the last people he expects are Iron Bull and Lady Comtois fighting hand-to-hand. Neither opponent looks worse for wear after drinking the tavern dry of maraas-lok, Nevarran vodka, and moonshine. According to Cullen’s morning reports, Cabot nearly caused a riot when he refused to share the beer, whiskey, and mead stores. 

Alas, they called a draw because her ladyship and the Qunari were the only half-sober people in the whole building. Only they could keep everyone from brawling. The Orlesian soldiers kept taunting the Fereldans troops about imperial conquest and Queen Moira’s silly rebellion. The Fereldans cried they might have lost to the Orlesians in the beginning, but still were not convinced it was the wrong side. Suddenly, the squabbles turned into a historical vengeance like it was 8:24 Blessed. Iron Bull and Lady Comtois stopped the chaos before on-study soldiers arrived. They sent everyone to bed. Sera puked so much, Flissa is still scrubbing the floors.

The rains the night before make the training ring muddy. So, the massive muscular Qunari and the tiny Orlesian bard are essentially mud wrestling. Cullen barely recognizes her so filthy. The dirty water saturates her usually perfect blonde hair, discoloring the buttery strains grey and brown. None of the soldiers or whispering Orlesians realize they know the woman tossing Iron Bull over her shoulder than their precious tavern singer or the majestic noblewoman. Again, she is a chameleon to everyone in Skyhold.

As the woman claims victory, she pivots on her soiled boot Cullen’s way, again knowing exactly where he is in a crowd of fifty. Those sapphire eyes call him. He cannot help but gaze at her dirty body. Her simple tunic and nearly see-through pants leave nothing to the imagination. She shifts a little when Krem hands her a rag to clean her face. In the morning cold, the commander sees she is not wearing a bodice or breast band. Those firm mammaries hang just so, while her nipples perk through her soaked tunic.

He audibly whimpers. Thankfully, no one hears the pitiful sound. The Fereldan quickly takes his leave, but he knows the vision will not leave him until he takes himself in hand tonight.

* * *

It should not surprise the commander that _she_ would be in the war room, but it does. He thought the one place the Inquisitor would bar a foreign spy is the war room. He goes there to prepare for an officer’s meeting…and to avoid any chance hearing the woman’s name. Cullen this enough about her the last few days to fill a lifetime. His meeting requires the massive map with all the Inquisition’s current operations. When he enters, he walks right into a curtain of velvet and silk. He stumbles into all the furniture pushed against the far wall.

“What in the blood Void is going on?!” Cullen hollers, batting a fabric roll of Highever weave off his pauldron without realizing threads that black Dales cotton twisted into his pomade hair.

“No, green was last winter’s popular color. You do not want to the court to think the Inquisition is behind on the latest trends.”

Cullen’s amber eyes flicker around the fabric until finding that songbird’s perfectly tailored accent for every situation, rubbing her pointed chin and snarling at an unrolled pallet of lustrous cotton. The woman does not hear him or more likely chooses not to respond. The other women in attendance also ignore the fuming commander. His whiskey eyes searches the room filled with trunks and cloth for the war map or any war markers that show the Inquisition’s ongoing strategy.

“I concur…” A rolling ‘R’ finishes the last word; the ice mage’s helmed head leans to the side while gazing at the multiple rolls of finery.

Of course Madam de Fer is with Lady Comtois. The first person the musician raced to after meeting with Leliana was First Enchanter Madam Vivienne de Fer. Usually when one woman assists Josephine with political dilemmas, the other works in the background to prepare for the next tea time or performance in the private lower dining hall. The bard and Orlesian mage act thick as thieves, fanning one another’s egos like a house fire.

“Constance, Darling, do you remember what Countess Louis-Jean de Nicolay wore to the dauphine’s saloon this past Kingsway? I swear I saw that horrid thing on some second use rack in the market.” Vivienne gossips with a hand wave to her Orlesian friend. The woman’s dark skin beams while her smile stretches all the way to her silly hat.

“You should have seen Lord Jacques Godefroy’s picked-over green jacket at Lady Lucille Trevelyan’s summer ball.” Lady Comtois huffs while pointing into her mouth. Cullen mistakenly envisions his cock with his action. She quickly turns around and rubs his neck. “I knew his wife had the fashionable taste of curdled milk, but to allow him to leave the house in such rags nearly made me lose my composure. The bard waved to another woman, short and waiting nearby. “Thank the Maker Francoise arrived when she did or we would have had to summon _Saphi_. With Francoise’s nimble and perfect fingers, you all will wow everyone in the ballroom.”

The short woman who rushes around the room for other cloth samples stops and curtsies. “ _Merci_ , Lady Comtois.”

“You know this is a _war,_ not an afternoon cup of tea!” Cullen hollers again, finally pushing his way through the mess to where the women gawk.

Leliana appears from behind a curtain, a wicked smile on her face while sipping on her white wine. Cullen regrets not checking the corners before realizing the spymaster would be in the middle of this charade. In her other hand are a pair of lacy blue shoes that keep her attention more than the commander’s yelling. “Commander, in the Great Game, this…” She waves to the surrounding cloths. “… _is_ war. The stakes are high. It is much like a battleground with death and destruction, but the outcome can be thrice as damaging. While you might prefer to charge in on horseback, the Orlesians prefer to dance the _Valse du Venin_.”

Josephine hops over a roll of fabric towards the commander. “That reminds me, Commander. Remember, you are to meet Lady Comtois tomorrow to begin your personal dancing lessons.” The Antivan smiles at the bard before throwing a fiery glare at him. “Before you say a word, it is mandatory. You will do so on the Inquisitor’s orders. Seleem clarified that every attending Inquisition member must be versed in all courtly dances. Lady Comtois and I thought you required personal attention and a flexible schedule, thus why you have separate lessons.”

“You mean _you_ told _the Inquisitor_ she had to learn.” Cullen scolds back, wrinkling his nose at the bard as she slips pass his right. A gentle breeze of honeysuckle and buttercups wafts in her wake. Internally, a warm chill runs up his spine. “That means if she has to suffer, I must too. You three enjoy any opportunity to throw me over the coals.”

“Still upset about the ice ball in your armor pants?” Leliana quizzes with a wink.

“At least you have not found your unmentionables nailed on a Chantry board yet, Commander…” That blonde bard remarks with a nod to the others present. Josephine and Leliana share looks and giggle. “Although, I would not put it past the Champion. He dressed that horse statue in front of the Viscount’s Residence in your four-day-old travelling gear after you fell into druffalo feces.”

Cullen’s whiskey eyes nearly pop out of his head as the other advisors laugh. Even Vivienne chuckles into her hand a few times. Cullen did not known the first enchanter’s larynx could even make such a happy sound!

“How did you-“  The commander fumes before stopping himself. “You think you know everything!?”

Lady Comtois just blinks at him with that damn blank smile she always wears, like he grew a second head. “I would be dead if I did not.”

Cullen opens his mouth, then shuts it quickly. He knows not to argue with a woman specialized in all forms of speech. Instead, he growls, “I’m not dancing.”

With a flick of her other wrist, a dagger appears and whirls around her fingers. When it stops, the hilt lands towards him while she holds the blade. “You might as well do the honorable thing now. For, if you go to the palace with no dance knowledge, you will commit political genocide for the Inquisition.”

Cullen recognizes the hilt, glancing at his back dagger sheath beneath his coat. The blade is missing. So, that shiver and breeze was not just her presence nearby wrecking his foundations. He thunders forward, teeth grinding. The bard sets the blade down on the cloth-covered log table and steps aside. Her heeled feet maneuver around the clutter floor without even looking down. 

Cullen calms himself and snatches it back. His gaze snapped to Leliana while sheathing it again, making sure the button keeps it in place. The spymaster just nods to her former student. “She is not wrong, Cullen. While you will not be dancing officially, circumstances might require you to, like a diversion. I know you are a man who prides himself on having every cosmic possibility covered. You attending means you might dance with even the empress, although unlikely. It is a ball after all.” Her hand waves to where Cullen sheathed his dagger. “And Constance will teach you every bard’s technique to disarm you during a dance, so when the empress is attacked, you will not be defenseless to other’s strikes. We will go in with just daggers, but a harlequin can easily guess wear yours are stored, only adding to her massive blade collection hidden in her garments.”

“You won’t be able to carry your sword either.” Lady Comtois gestures to the longsword on his belt. “While I know much about your _downtime_ in Kirkwall, I also know you are the most fearless and formidable templar the Order has ever produced. Your epithet as the Lion of Fereldan is not just for your boyish curls.” She smirks at his tamed locks with sparkling blue eyes. Cullen immediately combs the waves, fearing the pomade broke and showed his natural texture. Of course she knows about his curls from her Kirkwall dossier. “I know you can take on almost every threat bare-handed, but I can assure you remain armed.” 

The Orlesian bard wanders around him again like a challenge, but those dark blue eyes never leave his scowl. “My opera performance tested how the Inquisition will handle the negotiation ball. Leliana and I share the same conclusion: this organization has one massive weakness…you.”

The commander reared back, his face stinging from the slap that both her words and Leliana’s opinion. Lady Comtois did not allow him a moment. “It is something I wished to discuss with you in private.” Her sapphire eyes glances at the other attendees in the war room. “However, every moment you saw me in the halls between duties, you avoided me like the Blight. You constantly came up missing when I did go to your office. No hard feelings though...” She tilts her head. Her blonde waves are free flowing over shoulders right now, but not as long as Cullen has seen it during Orlesian parties. Its actual length perhaps? “Until now.”

Cullen deserves that. He avoided her for many reasons—mostly his lusty urges that went against his mistrusting mind. All those moments locking eyes with his she just wish to speak and save him from embarrassment. Now, with him essentially trapped, her ladyship put her foot down and bluntly stated why his attendance will kill the Inquisition. 

“The Inquisitor is a weakness, but not for the reasons you think you are right now. You two are similar at the moment. Neither knows nor cares for Orlesian knowledge or heritage. You both think this whole preparation is a waste of time. You two can handle any fight either with your templar skills or her magic. However, why you are the weaker link is that you do not have Inquisitor Adaar’s _power_ and _influence_. Orlesians thirst for both now more than ever. They will bark and beg for who has more cards at the negotiation table like a mabari whining for straps at the dinner table. At the performance, the Inquisition demonstrated you all will not bend to _anyone’s_ demands. So now, you all approach the negotiation table as equals…and a wild card. Everyone knows this organization’s final preference towards Gaspard or Celene with shape the empire.”

The bard steps towards the ex-templar again, but her hands visible to show she is not a direct threat. “However, the cards will fall from your hands if they notice that the great handsome Lion of Ferelden cannot handle fanning admirers or a tight ballroom. While you focused on those idiots at the performance, the other attendees watched you struggle and sweat. They will use it to exploit the Inquisition. Gaspard doubts your military even if you successfully suppressed and defeated the Grey Wardens. I know you worry about Gaspard’s intentions for Ferelden if they make him emperor. I surmise you are not a man who wants control taken from you. That is why he gave you no more than a glance. He finds you too common to be a commander. He only believes in men trained as chevaliers, noble and bred for such roles.” The bard rolls her electric blue eyes. “Egotistical nonsense like a cock measure contest.” Her eyes scans Cullen. “You could best him with a hand behind your back…naked.” 

The Songbird of Orlais continues her monologue. “I can help you overcome that fear or at least _bury_ the physical behaviors. I discovered later if it was not for Count Palomer relieving himself in the foundation, you would have surely made a ghastly scene.”

Somehow, Cullen keeps both his shame and rage deep inside. He hates to admit it, but Lady Comtois is correct. He was moments away from a panic attack if it was not for the mysterious Silver Fox poisoning that man’s drink and sending his admirers away. For all his years priding himself on be aware of environment, during that party his attention focused on the group talking to him and not the other masked eyes in that ballroom. If the Silver Fox saw his folly, how many other Game players noticed the weaknesses?

Still, to hear this bard speak so frankly about something that has been a decade of battle torn the commander apart. All of his achievements seem to mean nothing now. Seleem ordered him to never take lyrium again, but she always supported his endeavor and saw what it could mean to his fellow templars. The Inquisitor refused to accept his resignation and ordered him to stay away from lyrium. That order made Cullen feel his choice was not just for him anymore, but all the Inquisition and the disbanded knights under his command. He did not hold the burdens alone.

Alas, just as Cullen has always feared, his past discolors the Inquisition’s future. In Haven, being the acting knight-commander of Kirkwall disrupted peace between the templars and mages. It took months for the disagreements to simmer down. It sometimes flares even now. It is a daily struggle to prove to the Inquisition’s conscripted mages to even trust he will not imprison and brand them all.

Now, the aftershocks left by Kinloch Hold threatens the Inquisition’s chances at Halamshiral. Behaviors that people dismissed as rage or tiredness scream at potential adversaries, the commander is broken and unreliable. Leliana—and Cassandra to a degree—knew this and still recruited him to be the organization’s commander. Is this why Leliana pushed for Cullen to attend the gathering and allow Lady Comtois around Skyhold? 

Cullen cannot stop the betrayal from reflecting on his face. Josephine reaches towards him, but stops at the last moment, hanging her head. Leliana wears her mask of indifference, but her icy eyes have a mourning feeling. Vivienne faces away from him, but her tapping fingers tells she is uneasy. The seamstress disappeared sometime since Lady Comtois began speaking.

This Orlesian bard notices everything and offers full release from his fears. The musical assassins train to show nothing like statues, so their secrets are not told in their behaviors. They never use lyrium to bury those emotions. Lady Comtois wears that painting smile not because she is always happy, but it is an invisible mask.

_“As much as you might resist, listen to Lady Montilyet and Sister Nightengale’s advice, and you will survive the onslaught of gilded lies and disillusionment. Or even better find someone who can assist you personally.”_

The Silver Fox knew the commander is a risk, trying to shift his thinking within those brief moments. He still resists all the tomfoolery. He does not see a point, but it is not just about the Inquisition, but about his own future. Much like being ordered to never take lyrium again, Cullen can either recover completely or risk all that he has achieved.

Maybe it is time to learn ways to overcome the claustrophobic fears. He already overcame his magical fears…mostly. It is time other remaining ailments to go away too. Everyone, especially Bard Comtois, knew his templar discipline and techniques will not save him at the Winter Palace. Now, her ladyship offers all the tools to save himself.

Alas, no one had likely never spoke such truths before, likely fearing the commander will relapse or fall into his hells more. No, they held tongues out of friendship and caring too much about his wellbeing. Dorian, Cassandra, and Rylen are his closest friends. They know he can do anything, but the residual effects still linger. They do not have the skills to remove them without causing more harm.

From those twinkling sapphire eyes, Lady Comtois never meant to do this so publicly, but he forced her hand…or was that what she wanted him to think? It will always a guessing game with this chameleon.

Cullen exhales and squeezes his eyes shut. Maker, is he about to say what he is thinking?! “You make valid points, Lady Comtois.” He barely gets it out, his tongue tacky and dry like the words taste like sand.

“I know this behavior originates from deep inside you. I was once the same. If I have learned anything at court or even wandering Ferelden, to live to see the dawn sometimes requires ripping off the soiled bandage from a once infected wound.” The bard retorts. Her eyes glanced around the room. Leliana’s face is mute, but how the ladyship’s eyes lingers, they speak with their strange eyes. “It is all difficult to hear, but what you need right now is not a friend within your colleagues,” She refers to other women present, then to herself. “But an impartial ally who you can tap the sore healing skin and toughen it before the wolves smell any old caked blood.”

The musician’s eyes brighten, her lyrium blue eyes dancing around the room. She snaps her perfectly manicured fingers. “Blood. We talk of color and fashion, when we should discuss _blood_.”

Josephine blinks, her mind trying to follow this shift in the conversation. “Like something in red?”

“No, not red.” Lady Comtois hurries around, tossing up chests and digging around. Rolls of cloths and thread fly over her shoulder, much like Iron Bull that morning in the training ring. “Red represents the Chantry. In Haven, you all fought _months_ so that you are separate from the Chantry. Val Royeaux resisted your organization because the Chantry stood right there, even if not occupied the hierarchy. No, the Inquisition bled at Haven and later during the Siege of Adamant. You’ve bled for Thedas more than any kingdom. All races and beliefs bleed to stop Corypheus. When you stumbled out of the Temple’s carnage, you climbed the highest mountains and discovered a castle that held up the sky, just as the Inquisitor emerged from the Fade and sealed the Breach without the Chantry.”

“So blue and white like the sky...” Vivienne predicts, walking over to a hanging white taffeta scroll. “But that will show blood…” The mage catches on and starts searching the rolls.

“Blue and white makes you blend into Orlais. While the fields are barren and burnt from the civil war, they will decorated the ballroom in white and blue. Gold will accent every column and button…All are irrational colors of a floundering empire.” 

Lady Comtois points to Cullen. “The commander is not wrong about the empire in one fact. For all its finery, _the blood_ on nobles’ hands will always stain. Kill thousands of city elves by written orders? The blood will remain on the hand signing that edict? Or how a bard’s blade pierces a man’s kidney will spill blood across a room and never come out of silk. I know, I’ve tried.” Cullen chuckles at the comment. Lady Comtois grins at him. That warm shiver rolls back up his spine.

“Black is the only color that masks blood completely.” Cullen states, his brain naturally following her cryptic logic.

“It is also the only color devoid and all-encompassing of light.” Lady Comtois sings, lifting a roll of black plush fustian velvet from a nearby chest. She waves it towards the stain glass windows so light reflects off the fibers and absorbed the rest. “What is the motto of the Inquisition?”

“ _Into darkness, unafraid_.” Leliana replies with an approving nod. “To _dress_ as darkness, we display we are not unafraid of what lurks in the shadows…the empress’ potential assassins.”

“Silver as an accent color, embroidered throughout the uniforms.” Vivienne lays out shimmering silver satin from a nearby closet. “The Maker balances all parts of our lives.”

“More people have silver in their coin purses than gold sovereigns. It will be a message for the masses who care little for the Winter Palace’s finery. We speak for _all_ in Thedas, not just those with the wealth.” Josephine smirks to the bard.

“Besides, I think we can all agree that the commander will look ravishing in black and silver.” Lady Comtois grins and curtsies to Cullen. “If we cannot have you wear your armor into the palace, Commander, we can at least give a Fereldan red accenting cape. We do not want you to miss your iconic coat.”

Cullen flushes as he buries his head into his mantle. Leliana chuckles. Vivienne rolls her eyes with a grin, while Josephine shrugs at the red lion mantle around his shoulders. Seeing this as a perfect opportunity to leave, Cullen pivots and dashes for the door. “Thank you for your _thoughtful_ considerations, Lady Comtois.”

“Constance.”

Cullen stops himself from pulling the door open. He whips his head around. The bard approaches with the black fabric still in hand. “Pardon?”

Those swaying hips and long legs in heels navigate around the obstacles without a thought. She approaches him and bows again. “Please, call me Constance. My title is just that. While I appreciate the respect and honors, we will work together greatly for the next few weeks. It may help if you do not think me for my Orlesian ways, but just as a common everyday ally. Maybe not my Connie personality, but just not a masked snob. Friendship is not required if you do not wish, but maybe not speaking an Orlesian surname so unlike your customs will remove this barrier.”

Cullen does not like this proposal. It is easier for him to pretend she is an Orlesian buffoon than a regular every person as the other Inner Circle did. To call her by her first name removes the disconnection he grips with both fists. The titles keep his unsavory thoughts in check. To call her that sweet name will allow him to believe she is a potential friend and lover, someone more suited to warm his bed and moan in his ear than a nameless wench. Can he keep control and disconnected and still fulfill this request?

His amber gaze breaks just a moment to her chest where he saw those pink peaks through her wet tunic that morning. She catches that second and grins with one curled lip. This is not her false smile, but a true expression…possibly.

No, he cannot. He will not.

“Constance Darling, the commander’s Orlesian pronunciation greatly needs refining before the ball.” Vivienne advises with a perked brow. “He will not pass with common without speaking such surnames.”

The bard scowls at the mage, her emotions flowing that cracked invisible mask: 

_“ Heureux ceux qui se tiennent devant_

_Les corrompus et les méchants ne faiblissent pas._

_Heureux les Casques bleus, les champions des justes.” **[ 1]**_

Her sapphire eyes flick to Cullen. She knows he understands such an important phrase even in Orlesian. 

Cullen finishes it in a perfect Orlesian: 

_“ Heureux les justes, les lumières dans l’ombre._

_Dans leur sang, la volonté du Créateur est écrite.” **[ 2]**_

Every accent and rhythm is where it is needed.

“He would have not kept Kirkwall from crumbling without a Grand Cleric…or graduate from the Order’s academy without learning Emperor Drakon’s Orlesian _Chant of Light_ , First Enchanter.” _Constance's_ eyes never leave Cullen’s smug face, her slight smirk growing to a toothy smile. “Never underestimate a Fereldan’s hatred of Orlais for stupidity. The empire made that mistake and cost them their grand empire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Chant of Transfiguration, 4:10.  
> [2] Chant of Transfiguration, 4:11
> 
> Well, that was...tough. Let me defend Constance for a second: this whole "weakness" thing came from the first time I played Halamshiral. The fandom usually agrees Leliana used Cullen as a distraction with his admirers. I hated every minute watching him suffer and defend himself. The Inquisition did not prepare him. With his mental struggles and recovering addiction, this was torture. I want to smack 'Leliana' (actually Bioware) for doing this. Don't get me wrong, the scene is hilarious and cute. However, I thought about myself in Cullen's shoes and nearly vomited.
> 
> This is what Constance and the Silver Fox noticed at the opera performance. While Constance can be icy cold, she refuses to see a strong and honorable man be used as a distraction without preparing him for such hardships. She had not intentions to give her explanation in front of the other women, but Cullen did not give her a moment in private (because he fears what he will do in her company *wink*). 
> 
> Yes, this scene was rough, but Constance refuses her former mentor to do this to Cullen. (You can only imagine the debate around this between the bards.) Leliana must have relented, thus this intervention. Yes, Constance is a multi-face, manipulative, snobby bitch, but she does give a shit. (At least that is how I'm trying to write her.)
> 
> Do you agree with approach? How about Constance's activities around Skyhold? How will Cullen handle his personal struggles and this alluring woman?
> 
> Let me know in the comments! I heart you all! Your kudos, shares, views, and comments keep me writing! XD!


	5. Passacaglia:  Limit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are about to get hot in here. I imagined this and next chapter as one just to jump into everything, but they both grew beyond my control. So this is a two-part scene with things get more interesting . The set up is almost complete! When I said this is a "Porn-With-Plot" story, I meant it. XD!
> 
> Part 1 of 2
> 
> Chapter Song: “Kill ‘Em With Kindness” by Halocene  
> Example Composition: “Passacaille in C Major” by Louis Couperin
> 
> If you want to see examples of Constance's outfit, [check out my latest post on Tumblr!](https://thejeeperswife.tumblr.com/post/612756310411313152/dms-chapter-5-6-fashion)
> 
> If you're wondering about Varric's interview, it's based on this question meme when [I introduced Constance.](https://thejeeperswife.tumblr.com/post/189111083559/character-interview)
> 
> Again, that you all for your support. You all keep my writing and smiling each day. Thank you for leaving kudos, comments, and sharing! :)

* * *

Passacagalia: A musical arrangement and accompanying dance originating from Spain. Its composition style has been used by Baroque, Romantic, and Modern composers. The dance itself is similar to the Chaconne, another Spanish dance. Example Composition: Louis Couperin’s “Passacaille in C Major”

* * *

As soon as amber met sapphire, Cullen knows he cannot hightail it and run. He quickly shifts his eyes on the concerning reports from Emprise de Lion. He ventures to the gardens that day to ask Cassandra’s opinions. Once Scout Harding confirmed the Silver Fox’s valuable information, Cullen and Leliana sent word to the Inquisitor, currently stabilizing the Storm Coast, to return to Skyhold and begin an assault on the Orlesian region. Harding’s description of poverty and killing icy climate meant the local populace need immediate relief. Furthermore, Corypheus’ red lyrium mine must permanently stopped.

Perhaps Samson is there too.

Just focus on that, and then leave. 

“So, the Silver Fox is right about the Orlesian plight once again.” Cassandra concurs reading the vigilante’s initial letter with solid concrete evidence and Harding’s scouting report. “You hesitated on all this? Why?” Her espresso eyes glance up at Cullen.

Thankfully, Cassandra never catches the commander gawking at Lady Comtois sitting on a padded stone bench speaking with Varric. The dwarf has that blasted notebook out, scribbling away and smiling ear-to-ear. As soon as the Orlesian bard and Cullen’s eyes meet across the way, those denied urges roll through him. That blue song. Not lyrium, but yet just as deathly.

“I spent years in Kirkwall cleaning up Hawke and his gang’s messes.” Cullen grumbles, purposefully reading the Silver Fox’s printed press letter again. It keeps his restless sight on anything but that infuriating, but enticing woman. “Now, we have an Orlesian Hawke bouncing around in trees and mucking in our business.” 

Cullen will never admit aloud, but he actually missed her ladyship haunting his every moment the last few days. Yes, he avoided dancing practice. The appeal is becoming too much, so he forces himself to stay at his desk and work. He refuses to work out his frustrations by hand. However, it does not stop those new steamy dreams overriding his predictable nightmares. He does not know which is worst honestly. 

Sleep eluded the ex-templar last night. He went to Lady Comtois’ tavern room last night to make some excuse why he has been absent. He secretly prayed he could just fuck her and get on with his life. Of course, the Maker is a cruel god. Her elven maid stated she was on one of her personal missions and would be back in the morning.

And there she is, like she never left.

The Orlesian beauty leaves her shiny blonde hair down today, but a small cloth hat adorns her scalp, a useless accessory to an already overly exaggerated ensemble. There is a slight wave at the blonde ends. The chosen length looks the more believable, just past her shoulders to frame her exquisite fair face. Not too short for Connie Frye personal, but cumbersome long like her Orlesian costumes.

Every so often, the minor noble fans herself with an opaque hand fan that shimmers in the early winter sunlight. The climate inside Skyhold stays warm despite winter freezing southern Thedas beyond the walls. Her makeup is muted in comparison with her typical porcelain styles while entertaining delegations. She crosses her tights-covered legs that stick out of her asymmetrical puffy skirts. A vest jacket covers her corset just so, while a tied sash encircles her slim waist while hiding a dagger and rapier. The outfit’s mute colors accent her flawless skin and shiny hair, while her electric blue orbs brighten her entire presence, a contrasting splash of color to keep one’s attention on her alluring face.

Maker, when did Cullen become so obsessed with her fashion?! Ugh.

“Why wear a mask if you want people to trust you?” His whiskey eyes flick back her ladyship. She does not wear a physical Orlesian mask that afternoon, only that false painted smile that is so blank and disconcerting.

“Leliana suspects the Silver Fox is simply keeping the other Foxes’ customs.” Cassandra suggests, slightly blushing. “The empire’s aristocracy loathes common people scorning them. Wearing a mask is reserved for the nobility, so a criminal doing it is a twice insult. He likely fears what will happen if anyone knew his identity. If he has family or friends, they would be interrogated and harmed.”

“You believe it is a man as well?” Cullen questions, taken aback by the seeker’s assumption. “I assumed you thought the vigilante a woman for being so free and strong willed. You always state women should govern themselves and stand up to restrictive societies.” His memory reflections that vigilante’s shapeless form. However, the individual allowed him a glimpse of what lingered behind their full mask. 

Maker, talk about another person haunting his world.

_Surrounded by masked headaches…_

“And I still believe that.” Cassandra glares at the commander. “However, when I met the man in the Emerald Graves, all clues point towards masculinity. He was…” Her flush deepens. “…what someone would imagine in such a role. Dashing around and coming to the rescue.” She sighs to herself, staring into space.

“It sounds to me you romanticize the fiend like one of Varric’s nonsense serials.” Cullen mutters, pinching his nose. The seeker did the same when she first arrived in Kirkwall. She must have a thing for criminal heroes doing the impossible…and idiotic, especially regarding Garrett Hawke.

Again, Cullen’s whiskey eyes flow back to Lady Comtois, resting her heat a hand like Varric bores her. He scolds himself. The commander needs to get back control. Too many Orlesian harlots muddle in their affairs. 

It is time to suck it up and discuss privately why the Fereldan warrior wants nothing to do with her ladyship. He already fought lyrium addiction. He need not be in close proximity with a dangerous woman who calls him like a philter. Besides, he is common-born. She is an _Orlesian noble_. No, he does not want to dance with her. Cullen _loathes_ dancing. Furthermore, having her that close might make an already stressful situation too much to handle. To even call her by her first name nearly splits his last remaining grasp. He must have control over this boyish nonsense, keep focused, and improve himself.

No blue. Period. The Inquisitor ordered Cullen not to drink that poison anymore. When Inquisitor Seleem returns, he will tell her that the bard reminds him of his addiction. Cullen wishes to uphold her orders. He must keep himself _far_ away from the Songbird of Orlais.

Cassandra slaps her book closed and stands up. “And you are being stubborn. I do not trust easily, Cullen. The Silver Fox is doing more for Orlais than the monarchy. I have seen his efforts personally. After the Inquisition pushed the red templars and the Freeman of the Dales out, he left, allowing normalcy to resume. He trusted us to shelter the elderly, infirmed, women, and children as he has done alone for months. He left for another region to assist. Evidently, he followed the red lyrium and thus why you know so much about Samson’s operations in Emprise du Lion.”

Cullen nods his head towards Lady Comtois. Now, she is not smiling, her eyes drilling as she lectures Varric. The dwarf does not look happy about what she says. Maker, she can even manipulate that sarcastic dwarf to sober up, the impossible. “And what do you think of our new bard?”

Cassandra purses her lips and locks her jaw. “Lady Comtois? I’ve known of her for six years when just began at court. She actually sang at Most Holy Divine Beatrix III’s pyre ceremony. Leliana believes in her intentions, and she has not crossed me personally.” 

The seeker scolds and presses her lips together, grunting. “However, blood cakes her hands. The people who fell to her poisons, daggers, and rapier deserved it. Believe me. She exposed many nobles’ evils deeds and corruption to the populace. She only takes matters in her hands when the courts and rulers don’t step and do something about an individual. Do I agree with her methods, no, but no one cries for those terrible people. I’m surprised she isn’t dead honestly. However, her words can be warm and inviting or cold and skin-ripping.”

The seeker exhales and scratches the back of her neck. “Do I trust her? No, thus why I sat here watching Varric and her all afternoon. Those two plotting together is scarier than her ladyship and Sera pranking the whole fortress. Do I believe in her knowledge and techniques to survive Halamshiral? Absolutely.”

Cullen combs his hair with his free gloved hand before rubbing his tensed neck. “She pointed out I am security risk at the ball.” Cassandra does not react, only winces. It confirms this concerns her, and she never spoke to Cullen about it. That betrayal brings a frown to his face. Cassandra sways, looking elsewhere. “My past…alerted everyone at the opera performance. She offers to teach me ways to at least hide the tells to not doom the Inquisition.”

“Have you told her about your lyrium withdrawal?”

The commander shakes his head no, curls breaking from his pomade. “Her observations…her background information…She likely already knows. I am jacketless book for her to read. I hate it.” His hand falls from his neck. “Yet, she only discusses the more embarrassing moments while in public. She swears she only wants to help, but I resist.” Cullen should tell Cassandra about the sexual urges too, but he cannot say the words. It is like he is talking to Mia. Awkward.

A blade glint reflects off the afternoon sun. Cullen reaches for his broadsword, and slightly pivots towards the potential assassin. Instead, he sees once again Lady Comtois irresponsibly playing with a wavy-bladed dagger. He huffs to himself, waiting for a Chantry sister yell at her. No one says anything, though. Cullen recognizes she has everyone wrapped around her pinky. _He_ sees the two-face snob ruining Skyhold. His hand stays by his blade, just in case.

“Her mind is like Leliana’s. Nothing passes by them. She likely researched you before contacting the Inquisition.” Cassandra’s espresso eyes burn into the bard across the garden. The dagger is no longer in the bard’s hand. “Get out in front of it. The Inquisitor supports you not taking lyrium. It is time to find some mental relief as your body adjusts. It’s time to break free completely.” Cassandra pats Cullen’s shoulder. “they teach bards similar emotional purging as seekers so their enemies won’t see their weaknesses. Listen to what she says, but keep vigilant.” The seeker walks towards the great hall. “They’re blood-sucking vampires, except they live off information big or small.”

Cullen exhales and squeezes his whiskey eyes shut. Taking a few deep breaths, he turns back towards Lady Comtois. He waves the hand holding his reports towards the gazebo where the chess set is waiting. 

Constance notices the movement, those dark blue spheres following his gesture. She nods just a little like it was part of her conversation. Just the slight smirk to her lips tell Cullen she not only understands but cannot wait to share his company again.

Keep control and purge that blue, Rutherford.

* * *

Constance’s dark sapphire eyes follow the commander entering the garden. She is always aware when he wanders into her environment like a halla trotting into a wolf’s territory. While she answers the resident storyteller’s questions, her subconscious watches and analyzes the Fereldan’s every move. Her mind constantly teases out his intentions and thoughts displayed by each hand movement and facial twitch. He acts everything out, but still thinks he hides his struggles well. Oh, how she wants to solve his troubles personally. 

_Focus on the scheming dwarf, Constance._

Varric Tethras became one of Constance’s favorite drinking companions over the last week. Just last night, they competed on who could tell the most outrageous stories before the Iron Bull called out the participants’ well-crafted lies. The loser drank an entire pint of dragon piss water and paid for the next round. Their lying rumble ended with a draw, but the storyteller wished to pick her brain. He desires to make his literary Orlesian bards more realistic. Constance knows better. Varric wishes to include her in his new Inquisition memoir, the next _Tales of the Champion_. Readers love bards’ romanticized lives, while Varric loves giving his fans exactly what they want.

The questions themselves attempt to pry open at her hard, mute exterior. Her mind easily answers with generic vague responses. All the while, she admires Cullen’s scarred lips as he speaks, rugged and husky like his baritone voice. Those muscular legs in those great bear leather pants confirms his warrior lifestyle and built stamina. That mantle should burn for covering his firm behind. Every time the man crosses her path—and she makes sure that occurred frequently—the hunger to taste his lips and run her fingers over every bodily dimple calls her. 

After their war room tense encounter a few days ago, Constance raced back to her Orlesian room and masturbated for a few bells, hopeful this inappropriate and unadvised lust and gnawing would subside. She gave themselves some space to figure out these inappropriate and distracting urges. She needs to focus on her mission here. Alas, her fingers and tongue—and oh how she could bend and twist to do _that_ —barely dents the _need_ rolling deep within.

Varric’s questions about ‘love at first sight’ directs her gaze to the Inquisition’s seeker sitting on a stump. Her gemstone eyes just rolls at the warrior’s dreamy notions. That desire only exists in fiction. On the other hand, ‘lust at first sight’ means something completely different. Constance agrees with that turn of phrase. Just look at her hunger and licking lips while admiring the commander reading that report.

As for Seeker Pentaghast, Constance learned many years ago the stern and thorny woman softens and longs for a fairytale romance. After her forbidden mage lover died at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, her heart reaches out for anyone to fill the void. If the Inquisitor had been a man, Constance hypothesizes the seeker would have yearned for the Herald of Andraste, the perfect fairytale holy hero. 

Varric’s random eye movements to his ‘nemesis’ and the seeker glancing at his back every page turn states that the companions might loath one another on the outside, but there was a kindred passion neither wish to admit. The old troupe ‘enemies to lovers’ applies to the duo, although she predicts Varric and Cassandra never really hated one another. No, they always admired each other. They just wandered for decades in two different social realms. It took the end of the world to shove them into the same fortress and work together.

The beardless dwarven perks a brow at Constance’s ‘no comment’ response that she wanted something so badly it hurt. While she brushed aside his ‘love at first sight’ question, Constance knows her second response was not wise. Her attention lingers too long on the commander, watching as the noble seeker and he discuss the report. 

The Skyhold rumor mill remarks Commander Rutherford and Seeker Pentaghast’s closeness might suggest a deeper private relationship. The two met in Kirkwall and have been sparring partners since. An innuendo or not, Constance still does not know. The seeker’s harsh Nevarran features soften speaking with Cullen, but as a friend and confidante. Both warriors served the Chantry and share many similarities. They interact like siblings, only touching to make a point. They do not flirt. Their body language state this is a comradery friendship, not something Constance might see as competition.

Constance’s sapphire eyes remain on Varric for the rest of the interview. She distrusts her curious brain. She slipped once too many. She never fouls up. One mistake means death in her profession. 

When the commander notices her on the bench across from Varric’s perch, he stills and purses his scarred lips twice. Yes, the Fereldan knew he cannot run now. He avoided Constance since that war room discussion. He missed every scheduled dancing lesson. Constance even left for a quick excursion, but returned before he could reject her preparation lessons. 

The Fereldan commander despises her despite Constance’s techniques to relax him. She hates herself that she publicized his vulnerabilities in front of the other Inquisition members. He left her no choice. Her subtle actions to speak privately went unanswered. That Fereldan stubbornness and templar denial forced the bard to be direct and raw. Constance never enjoys acting like a cad, but the hard-headed man cannot take a hint even if smacked across the face.

Would make sex more invigorating, though. Bondage, perhaps? Role playing?

No, Constance. _Down._

No wonder the commander bested lyrium. In the first thirty seconds meeting him, Constance knew he no longer used the Chantry toxin. His breath did not have that tangy sweetness common after drinking the blue vial. His skin lacked the grey undertones of continuous use after at least a month.

Then there are the physical symptoms of lyrium withdrawal. Constance’s memory reminds her of all the lyrium addicts that litter the docks at every major port and the drug dealers pushing the red version now. Part of her bard education was studying addicts suffering from withdrawal in prison: shaking hands, debilitating migraines, restlessness, muscle stiffness, insomnia, and psychosis.

Cullen screams every symptom, but its impact lessens each day he steps away from his old addiction. Now, he struggles with the rising, buried emotions so compacted after years of use. As soon as that infected wound gets uncovered, it festers and sickens the person. He opened Pandora’s box and does not know to stop the horrors raging inside him.

Constance can help, her own box empty and filling with dust. She purged the negative pain and turned it into stamina now fulfilling her goals. The commander can do the same.

And that sexual hunger can satisfy both their warring nethers.

Ugh, her self-inflicted orgasm before leaving her ladyship rooms did nothing. Just watching him makes her drip and soil her lacy smalls. Such a terrible conundrum conflicts with her purpose here.

The bland words and half-truths tumble from her lips, while her bored mind debates all the reasons bedding the commander is unadvisable. Constance has had multiple opportunities to lay Cullen Rutherford. Her disguises and personalities never clued the commander that they actually met at least four times over the ten years. She might have mentioned her contacts told her of his city-state _adventures_ , but she neglected to admit many of said contacts were herself in incognito.

This is the first time the bard could be ‘herself’ in the commander’s presence. Kirkwall’s ghastly water or that expensive Antivan coconut balm pomade only sharpened his looks. Despite the lyrium withdrawal’s harsh abuse, the years have been kind to him. Those twisty blond noodles did nothing for his head and brow. His late-day stubble just accents his chiseled jaw too. And that fantastic scar Meredith rewarded him just provides that _kick_ that makes all women and some men melt into the floor. 

That hard-lined templar softened over the last few years. He became more malleable after ditching his irate knight-captain alter-ego. However, his deep fears and misinformation still color his perception. He is quite vulnerable, like a newly born dragonfly whose exoskeleton is still soft from freeing himself from his pupal shell.

And there she is buzzing around, desiring to be the first woman to taste this newly reformed man. His stiffness shows he has not lain with another in a year, likely since leaving Kirkwall. Such an experienced man could have found a bedmate anywhere, but his honor and Inquisition commitment keeps him celibate.

Oh, to _shatter_ his dry spell.

Constance wishes to help sooth those dark recesses in that Fereldan’s heart and soul. She will not do purge the dark _for_ him, just show him the door. The blonde beauty can now do so as ‘herself’, helping him recover and take control over his traumas. Healing people mentally was one of the few aspects of bard psychology she enjoyed and researched while a University of Orlais student.

Unfortunately, that requires her _not_ to bedding the blond Adonia. Yes, Constance can fuck anyone without forming an attachment. However, Cullen just even seeking quick release still attaches himself to people. When he selects a partner, he expects a long-term understanding. A one-night stand only occurs while he travels or someone specific caught his eye. Alas, he always returned to the same whores or tavern wenches. Constance doubt it was because they were good bed fellows. No, once the commander finds something that _works_ , why search elsewhere?

The ex-templar is particular about his bedmate’s features and personalities too. Lilac at the Bloom Rose comes to mind. The elven woman’s attributes contrasted completely with the Hero of Ferelden, Cullen’s former infatuation, and Leliana’s warden wife. 

While Constance’s informants could not obtain exactly what happened in that Circle ten years ago, it is enough information to weed through the rumors and discover the basic truth. Constance never used such information on the Kirkwall missions. She kept it safely stored in her mind like a bee that buzzes every time she hears his name. 

Despite both Lady Amell and Constance being blonde and blue eyed, Cullen actually gives Constance a second glance…with hungry disdain. He dislikes her, but still wants to her screw her senseless. He does not want to, but his prowling body says otherwise. It was only a matter of time before the infamous Lion of Ferelden and the Songbird of Orlais cross paths again.

Do not bed the tortured and recovering addict commander. Help the man heal himself through those old traumas. Constance’s hand, tongue, and _too_ overused dildo will just scratch that nagging itch that tingles the moment her electric eyes saw him in the opera theater. A prime example of ‘lust at first sight.’ Nothing more.

“Anyone interesting you here, Lady Comtois?” Varric grins like a Cheshire Cat. She knows he never noticed her quick glances. Yet, his little gossipers inform him of everything occurring in the fortress. Cullen’s behavior is not subtle. Constance’s life revolves keeping such desires deep inside and hidden. However, the commander has the subtlety of a bull in a glass shop.

“I could ask you the same thing.” Constance quips back with her typical painted smile.

The dwarf huffs. “All I need is Bianca.” He pats the unique crossbow lying against his chair.

“She will never leave her husband for you.” Constance advises in the wispy undertones. The Skyhold’s mild climate and wind shifts her buttery blonde strains until they curl at the ends. The mountain air feels a touch humid despite winter settling beyond the castle’s boundaries.

Varric scrunches his brow. “What are you talking about? Bianca’s not married.” Again, his hand rubs his crossbow handle.

“That…” Constance’s dark blue spheres glance at the crossbow. “…was a parting gift even before she left you at the altar. She had already made her choice months before you two ran away together.”

Varric pales, his lip jumps twice. His expression shifts back to his humorous defensive self, but with a slight nervous laughter. Comedy saves his broken heart in most situations. The more he jokes, the more discussion strikes his soul deeply. “Do I _look_ like the marrying type?”

“Save the dodging.” Constance strikes, resting her temple on her supported hand. The man sidestepped her constantly the week. Yet another blunt man who needs the truth smashed in his face. Constance’s time here is too short. There are many people here who need to hear her _valuable_ wisdom. Too many of these selfless people have been brow beaten by the world. Constance will not sit on her laurels. 

Big secrets are worth sharing. 

The Orlesian’s typical patient manners are useless with such stubborn, bullish men. “Bianca supplies me with new weapons from time to time. The dwarf and I worked together to create a stiletto bracer that springs out with a finger flick. Her smokeless coal is great for noise bombs because they leave no odor.”

That got the dwarf’s attention, his challenging eyes fill with warnings and hesitancy. “She created a protective secret stash for your books; all read at least a dozen times. She caught all your little messages between the lines.” This is why Kenna calls Constance an ice woman. When pressed, she will stab with an ice icicle into a person’s heart until they shatter. Then she picks up the pieces and heats them until they become something new. 

Varric clinches his jaw, his eyes screaming. The dwarf searches for a sarcastic comment, but cannot speak. He wants to hear this, and he _hates_ it. “Alas, her husband and she are trying for children now. Her time as an inventive paragon shifts to motherhood and producing the new generation of surface guild dwarfs…without you. She asked if I knew of anyone who could help with fertility. Evidently, her husband is a little… _weak_ in that department. It does not help you had her playing with red lyrium the last year. She thought about using you to seed her womb, but when the infertility came up, if she showed up pregnant with no explanation and solving her husband’s impotence, the Guild would come after you. Again.” 

The dwarf looks kicked in the gut. The black ice heart lays at her feet now. He did not know. When the dwarves met a few weeks ago, Bianca said nothing. Constance knew all of this through her little grape vines. Bianca always cut any vines leading back to Varric’s little birds. The bitch wanted him alone forever. 

“The Guild knows about your rendezvous. Every one of those seedy taverns off the beaten path. They allow it because you are famous and Bartrand is dead. They need Tethras money and influence. Rumors from Kirkwall state they eye you to run the city-state. That will make the Guild _really_ powerful.”

Now to have the writer see his current path will kill him. “Even after she essentially _gave_ Corypheus red lyrium to infect himself and the entire red templar army, you still cheer and love her. Well, the idea of her. Even when she abuses and dumps you, you wait for her to come back. Some things never change, even when it is a tale you refuse to weave.”

Constance applauds Varric’s stolid expression, but his quick blinking gives away his rage and broken heart. Now, to pick up the pieces and mend this good person who does so much for the world. “You think I would agree to this little interview if I did not wish to inform you of matters you deserve to know? Of course she would never tell you such things. There is much she has not told you. I swear by my pretty floral bonnet it is true.” Constance points to the small lace and wax flowers hat weaved into her hair. 

“Bianca keeps that knowledge to herself so you will scratch her cheating cunt and leave your bed cold after she has had her fill. I will not sugarcoat the inevitable. Your friend Hawke warned you years ago about such an abusive romance, his own heart broken by the former Tevinter slave. Then there was the warden mage back stabbed him, and Hawke killed him. Thank the Maker for Isabela for reforming his heart once _she_ came clean.”

Varric grits his teeth. For once, he keeps his mouth shut. He grieves for his best friend, someone who always had his back despite disagreeing with him constantly. Garrett Hawke wanted his dwarven friend to find love and happiness. However, Varric needs to shed the disease betraying him constantly. 

Let Bianca try to stab Constance’s sapphire eyes out. Constance lost a genius supplier today, but that cheating dwarf’s downfall will be on everyone’s lips in the next few weeks. Varric keeps her secrets, but seeing this strong, talented man slowly rebuilding himself in front of the bard now states he is ready move on. 

Constance now must finalize her advice, to nudge him towards true happiness and peace. “Call this an intervention before you’re found with a knife in your back. Again. Your heart is shattered, but…” Constance’s gaze shifts to Cassandra. "There is someone closer who has a heavy heart too.” She just wants to say the seeker’s name, but this must Varric’s choice. Constance does not know if there is someone even better for him. Although, she doubts that. “You both have horse glue in hand. Mend each other, please. Do not hide behind your false ‘hate’ for past transgressions. You have held a candle long blown out. She has a match burning so brightly…” Constance points to the crossbow. “…it dwarfs that.”

Varric rolls his eyes, his humor finally reviving after this massive bombshell. “You still haven’t answered my question, Stabs?”

“Stabs? Not very inventive.” Constance comments with a hand wave to his notebook.

“Still working on your nickname, but you stab with vicious words as much as your knives.” The dwarf gestures to the unique kris on her belt loop.

Constance pulls out her dagger and twirls it in her hand a few times. The commander recognizes the glint, a purposeful action on her part. Cullen reaches for his longsword, those templar reflexes still strong. Noticing it is Constance playing with knives, he relaxes. His hand does not wander far from his hilt. His grimace states his displeasure, but reluctant allowance. 

“A gift from a Rivaini seer, great against unarmored opponents. The waves encompass all the elements, a great symbol of harmony between the user and Mother Nature. However, its curls also cut deep into a person, the wounds jagged while entering and exiting the victim. In a kidney, it is a quick, but painful death. I only use it on those who deserve a cut thousands but in one thrust.” 

Bianca comes to mind.

“ _Stabs_ really fits then.” Varric chuckles, admiring the blade in Constance’s bare hand. The blade vibrates every time it taps her opal ring. “Just like your words.”

“The wound is jagged, Varric.” Her electric eyes mourn for this man. “With help, it can be sown shut and properly healed.” Constance briefly smiles, knowing the dwarf slowly accepts this new reality. His gaze keeps flicking to the seeker standing from her stump and wondering towards the grand hall. Her espresso eyes remain on the dwarf, a slight pout across her thin lips.

Yes, this will end well for both of them.

Cullen motions towards the chess board under the gazebo. The bard smirks and slightly nods. Another opportunity to win over the commander. One mission complete, another begins.

“You still haven’t answered me.”

After slipping her kris back in its sash sheath, Constance slides her index finger down her nose. She stands gracefully, her puffy skirts fluffing just so. “I think we are done. I believe the commander wishes to have a battle of wits playing chess. Do try to figure me out, Varric. I cannot wait to read your publication…Please exaggerate everything. I admire your imaginative mind.”

Varric laughs a few times, his brown eyes moving between the sitting commander and Constance’s walking direction. “With that deflection, you told me you _do_ have an interest. Why Curly, only the Maker knows. He hates Orlesians _and_ nobles.”

“Your feelings for Qunari and magic warrant prejudice, Monsieur Tethras, but still you stand by a Voshath ice mage against an ancient magister.”

“You forget I’m partly responsible for this mess.” His head hangs and exhales. “If I hadn’t sought out that damn thaig…”

“Greed might have sent you there, but powers beyond you or Champion Hawke’s control tied you on this path. Oh, the Maker’s cruelty…” Constance comforts the dwarf with two shoulder pats. Her garments flutter in the breeze. “You might think you are selfish and irresponsible as the next guy, but your books show you know what causes need your aid. You’ll be a legend that will transcend time. I might compose great ballads that might last the Dragon Age, but you, Good Sir, will rein the heavens where all bards only fantasize.”

Varric shrugs. “Ah, I doubt that. The Chantry doesn’t like me. I’m no Brother Genitivi. Your Philliam’s twisted realm is too strange for even me!”

“But your faith is strong.” Constance steps away. “Keep being you. Adieu, Monsieur.” She moves towards the gazebo before the dwarf can respond. She finished her important business for the man being used and abused by a former lover. Furthermore, she introduced the possibility of something sweet with the mourning seeker. Her minor deeds are done.

Now, to tame this beastly stubborn lion commander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constance is at it again...
> 
> Thank you for the support last chapter about Constance's firm approach. She is a no nonsense person, and Skyhold is filled with stubborn people. I had not intention of addressing Varric, but I wanted Cassandra to have a romance since my usual matches for her are connected elsewhere. I know the fandom likes them together so I thought "why the hell not." 
> 
> Also, I LOATH Bianca! Textbook abusive relationship! How I think about Constance's personality, I know she would want to do something about this. It is not exactly her business, but she does investigate cruel people. Was she harsh with Varric? Absolutely. Is this what it took for him to change his mind? Yes. Hawke warned him, the Inquisitor likely did during that mission, and now Constance, the ice queen herself. If Bianca is why we could NEVER romance Varric, I want to throw my computer at Bioware. THE MAN DESERVES TO BE LOVED AND CHERISHED!
> 
> ...end rant.
> 
> Do you agree with all this? Will something happen between Cassandra and Varric? how about Constance and Cullen's physical desires? How will they overcome all this? Let me know in the comments!


	6. Gavotte:  Face Value

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Beta By Ms_Saboteur! (Thanks, Sunshine!)*
> 
> Part 2 of 2!
> 
> Slightly NSFW, lots of innuendos and crotch descriptions ;)
> 
> Chapter Song: "Confident" by Halocene  
> Example Composition: George Frederic Handel’s “Sonata in G Major Op.1 No. 7: A tempo di Gavotti”
> 
> If you want to see examples of Constance's outfit, [check out my latest post on Tumblr!](https://thejeeperswife.tumblr.com/post/612756310411313152/dms-chapter-5-6-fashion)
> 
> Again, that you all for your support. You all keep my writing and smiling each day. Thank you for leaving kudos, comments, and sharing! :)

* * *

The Gavotte: Originating from the Gavot region of France, they sometimes used this dance as a generic term for folk dances. With its moderate tempo, the couples could enjoy themselves. If bold, men may kiss his hopeful lady at the end. Alas, they replaced the ending kiss with offering flowers when it became a courtly dance. Example Composition: George Frideric Handel’s “Sonata in G Major Op.1 No. 7: A tempo di Gavotti”

* * *

Within seconds of Cullen sitting down, the bard pats Varric’s shoulder and sways his way. That puffy skirting around her hips flutters behind her, while the open silt front allows him to see those white dalen cotton tights and just barely there girdle ribbon ends. The commander moans to himself, his mind imagining nothing covering her awaiting groin. Her high laced boots and tall heels click like chimes against the flagstones. Each chime denotes how her hips sway side to side. Her left hand continues batting her jeweled fan, but only by her chin and away from her face. That means her sapphire eyes shine and zero in on him.

The siren’s harmony echoes inside Cullen. She beckons him to lay his head between those peeking thighs and lick her clean in front of all the Chantry sisters in the garden today. His mind resists the inner song every heartbeat, but his body roars and claws at the opportunity to please his libido raging from lack of lyrium and pacify his addiction. 

To control his arousal, Cullen reminds himself she is everything he despised in a person: multi-faced, dishonest, snobbish, belittling, and deathly.

Then his tenting pants hollers back she was sex on legs, trained to be alluring and pleasing. Even with her breasts covered in lace, a jacket, and a corset accents her slim waist, natural bouncy breasts, and wide hips. The silted fluffy skirt hanging from her belt conceals her blades and rapier. However, the skirts perfectly highlights her toned round behind that could rest a full teacup without spilling.

Yes, Cullen needs to find another way to scratch this roaring libido without causing an international scandal for the Inquisition. Sleeping with any of the fanning tavern girls might cause issues for the Inquisition’s reputation. He wants be to a respectable commander who does not give into his many addictions. A man in his position could not flirt and bed a brothel woman anymore. This was not Kirkwall.

Damn lyrium side effects.

Damn this enchanting mermaid trying to drown him in her blue.

“May I join you, Commander?” That sweet musical voice questions, while referencing the seat opposite him. 

A waft of honeysuckle and buttercups tickles the commander’s nose. His mind drifts to his childhood favorite lake. A little Chantry tune mingles the trickling stream that fed the small pond. He misses that solitary. He never found such a spot since leaving his childhood village. He avoids discovering if it still exists, even after travelling past the region with his Inquisition duties.

Cullen swallows, brushing the nostalgia away. From Constance’s blonde arched brow, she reads his facial expression closely. He hates being an open book. His templar persona does not block her observant orbs. Only the Silver Fox caught more than this bard. Maker, he is swimming in rogues right now. 

Cullen could _drive_ into one. _Hard_.

Maker, his head—not his brain—needs to stop.

The warrior clears his throat, dismissing the filth flowing through his mind involving the table in front of him and very public sex. “Be my guest, Lady Comtois.”

Her ladyship gracefully sits down without reacting to using her formal surname and title. She likely knows why he avoids her first name. Her garments ruffle with each movement. “Do you play, Commander?” Her hand waves at the set up chess board.

“It’s been a long time. I’ve only began playing again.” He admits honestly. He should not play her. He should just say hello, make his excuses for missing dancing practices, and return to his office. “I usually play with Dorian and Leliana. They both cheat terribly. Solas and Iron Bull play a game entirely in their heads, a little too extreme for me. The Inquisitor asked me to teach her, but neither of us have the time or concurrent schedules.”

“Yet here you lounge without a challenger.” Constance points out with that slight grin. “I thought you were a masochist who preferred to rub himself raw against a grindstone of endless correspondence.” There is a minor chuckle to her speech.

“While I prefer to be out and about with my men, being a commander comes with the _delightful_ paperwork.” Cullen sarcastically groans. His brain reminds him of the filing piles waiting on his wobbling desk. He still has not figured out what changed his desk’s stability. Each time he stands or sits, it shifts and tosses organized papers and files on the floor. “However, the Inquisitor ordered me to actually rest at least a bell a day to avoid insanity or papercuts.”

“I’m glad I caught you during a recess.” She moves a white pawn forward, beginning the game. “It seems your administrative requirements keep you _far away_ from your newest preparatory obligations.”

So, the bard will not sugarcoat Cullen’s absence like he expected. Her techniques shifted over the last week. Since directly approaching him in the war room, she handled his dismissive manners with a blunt hard fist. Did the bard get frustrated with him to lose her finery? No, she read him and knew beating around the bush will not mold him into her desires.

Oh, Cullen craves to mold her by roughly massaging those natural breasts and enticing every sound possible from those plump lips.

Again, his crotch is starving his brain of blood. “I came to your tavern room last night to apologize, but your elven maid stated you were off on one of your personal adventures. She assured me you would be back by morning.” The commander excuses himself, moving his own black piece. His strategic mind works two fronts right now: on the chessboard and playing battle of words with a deathly bard.

Constance leans back and crosses her legs. Her movements are like water streaming over a smooth rock, so fluid and elegant. She lets him see each muscle flex while drawing his whiskey eye to those long legs. “Well, here I am. I told the War Council my personal responsibilities will not disrupt my Inquisition pledges.”

“Master Dennett must be steaming for how hard you ran his steed then.” Cullen suspects with pursed lips, brow scrunching. “That impacts the Inquisition. You might have given him a rare Amaranthine Charger, but it does not excuse risking a prized Inquisition war horse. Imagine if a runner needs to transport a message to agents in the field and the one horse we can rely on has been rushed raw by our resident bard.”

Constance’s false grin grows a little. “The horse master is a good friend of mine. I wondered when his new mare’s pampering and breeding would translate to your daily requisitions.” Her leg swings while sitting across her thigh. Her toes point in her high heel boots, elongating that sculpted leg. “You are so concerned about my activities threatening your army. Tell me, how is my acquaintance Kenna MacLachlan? I’ve seen her with your recruits and arguing with your second-in-commander. She must be smoothing your feathers or you tossed her elsewhere if you are so concerned about _me._ ”

The commander moves a knight from its starting position, his eyes focusing on the board and not the bouncing slim leg in his periphery. She knows it catches his attention and distracts him in more ways than one. How easily could he fling it over his shoulder while sheathing his shaft deep inside that cunt? 

“Lieutenant MacLachlan is an invaluable wealth of military knowledge for new recruits. She openly pledges herself as an agent in the Inquisition. She’s fierce, but kind. The soldiers respond and respect her.” Cullen adjusts in his seat to block the leg sight under the table. “As for her disagreements with Captain Rylen, I think it originates from their home city-state.”

“Starkhaven people are easily agitated. They love to drink and fight. Most altercations shift to the bedroom. Rylen will need to wear Kenna down if that’s his goal. Kenna’s quite picky about who lays with her.” Constance captures a pawn, denying his trap. “I’m glad she has found a home among your military. She and I keep distance, but I still count her a valuable contact.”

“She is fully committed to this organization…” Cullen’s whiskey stare silts, focusing on Constance’s half blinking eyes. “…I will be blunt. I dislike your half-collaboration. I know it is your way to not dedicate yourself, but it is my duty as commander to weed out the half-hearted and people who may waste our time. Such people have no business here.”

Lady Comtois does not show she is bothered by his mistrust. She just blinks at him and gives that unnerving half smile. “Still cannot trust me, Commander? Is it for who I am or what I represent? Is my looks or behavior?” She taps her ring finger against her pink plump lips. Cullen just watches the movements, mentally shooing away what those lips might look like around his cock. “No…it is not me. You struggle with an issue that I keep reminding you of every moment, hmm?”

Cullen keeps still, just moving his chess piece. This woman already knows she is right. Nothing Cullen can do blocks her out. No templar discipline or Fereldan stubbornness shield from those electric blue eyes that see everything. He feels like he was at confession and the academy revered mother witnessed him sinning with a fellow female recruit behind the armory.

“I can teach you to resist such labors, Cullen.” A long pink licks those shiny lips and smack saying his first name. He should demand she uses his title, but his name sounds heavenly and revives the lyrium music inside his soul. The inner roaring and clawing intensifies. He wants to hear it being screamed through her multiple ecstasies. “They are tied to the same wounds you fight but barely hide behind that tough, rugged exterior. You know this truth already, but you run from it. You believe working your fingers to the bone will drive away the nightmares. Commander, I can assure you they _never_ go away.”

“I doubt you’ve suffered like me, your ladyship.” Cullen growls with disgust. He points to the jeweled dragonfly on her jacket collar. Its wings flutter on small springs attached to its slim body every time she moves. “You wear jewels with this generic personality, while you dress in rags in the tavern. Nothing is real on you. You state you can teach me to survive the Game, while I want nothing to do with such ridiculousness. Yes, I’ll play it to save the empire, but it only be this one time. Never. Again.”

Constance leans forward, one elbow resting on the table. Her chin sits on her fair, soft hand. That false grin grows a little more, while the lyrium blue eyes twinkle at him, amused by his insults. “Curious it is my broach you reference to state my wealth, and my Fereldan clothes when I entertain your soldiers to state my many personifications. Tell me,” She gestures her broach that rests right by her left breast. Through the sheer lace, Cullen watches as the rounded skin rises and falls. Her breath remains even. “Describe it to me.” The commander goes to reject her game, but she holds up one finger and wiggles it twice. “Humor me. I wish to know what you see…what you believe about me.”

Cullen grits his jaw. He should not. _Get up and just leave, Cullen._

However, the commander can end this now. Maybe being a crude and cold bastard will chase her off and break this inappropriate desire. This woman both attracts and revolts him. It would not be _too_ difficult to accomplish…as long as his penis behaves. 

The ex-templar threads his hands together and glares her down. His scarred lips jumps in irritation. He imagines this tart as Meredith and all he wishes he could have said to his dead knight-commander. His baritone voice turns raspy and harsh. “It’s expensive and unnecessary. You say you help all classes, but wear finery that could feed a dozen refugees for a month. I’m not familiar with the jewels. I’ve lived a basic life where such _baubles_ are signs of everything wrong with Thedas. You wear similar stones in your earrings and rings, covering yourself in shiny things because you are insecure and wish for every eye on you. You want to seem wealthy, even though you barely hang on to the aristocracy. I’m surprised you haven’t put such gems on your lips so they might make your words sound rich. It’s misdirection to hide your real goals that must be impure and harmful for the Inquisition. No face you wear calms me, _Bard_.” 

Constance blinks lazily, like she is bored. However, she actually shows her teeth with the next wicked smile. “Ouch.” Her voice denotes she is being sarcastic. “You wish to chase me off by insulting me so I will leave you alone. Oh, Commander, you read me like a stupid imbecile, which is _everything_ you are not. You slander yourself more with these childish words than hit my ego. Orlesians would call you a barking dog without teeth, _and not_ because of your heritage.”

The bard sits back in her seat. Her one legs slides off the other. She exposes that bit of heaven Cullen wants to explore just a second. She barely covers her groin with sheer lace before crossing them again. Cullen swallows hard. His penis stands full mast now, overpowering his brain again. 

These opposites really need to find a resolution.

“Let me give your first lesson to combat an Orlesian. _Never_ be direct, even if that is what you Fereldans thrive on. Do not let them know your real thoughts or they will eat you _alive,_ picking to pieces.” 

Suddenly, Sera runs through the garden, shooting arrows at pots and laughing sadistically. Tied around her quiver are pant legs. “WOO HOO! Get them all! Come and get me!” Cassandra, some hollering Orlesian nobles, and a squad of soldiers race after her. Most of them are missing their breeches. Cullen knows he should help, but he would like to avoid Sera’s bees and pranks later.

“And then there are other schools of thoughts.” The bard follows the chasing group run from one end of the garden, up the stairs, and over the ramparts. She just exhales, rolls her eyes, and returns attention to him. “But please, follow mine.” Constance slender fingers flow over her white king, her thumb massaging the tall body and encircling the crown. The innuendo is not lost, forcing Cullen to adjust his stance again. “You see jewels, masks, and wealth. The _baubles_ adorning me equate as everything wrong with the world as you stated. But what do they represent? Lady Montilyet sends out bulletins every day with descriptions on who is visiting and their specialized masks. Why? Because it _means_ something. _Everything has meaning, Cullen._ Even unmasked, an Orlesian still wears that meaning.” She waves to her dragonfly broach as an example. 

“Your primary exposure to the powerful meanings has been through Chantry symbols and hymns. As a former templar, they remind you of what you must memorize at the academy. Yet, it does not equate to the real world. You had to learn it all again in the Circles. Theory versus Reality.” 

The Songbird of Orlais flips up her hand, clenching her folded fan. “Blame Emperor Drakon for such disconnections. The emperor indoctrinated Andrastian and Orlesian societies with the importance of symbolism. For example, the lion represents the Orlesian monarchy. You see it _everywhere_. It constantly reinforces who is in charge in the general populace’s minds. It subconsciously reduces the chance of revolts in the poorer populations. Lion eyes are always watching. ‘ _Do not resist our rule and society. We are mighty and strong._ _Follow the pride’._ ”

The bard touches her temple and outline her sapphire eyes. “So, I’m unmasked today. I wear a jeweled broach, the only brightly colored item on my person…Well, beyond my eyes.” She grazes her temple with her long nail to draw Cullen’s honey attention to those lyrium spheres. “What does it mean? What message am I displaying today…or always?”

“You wish to holler and buzz over stagnant diseased waters?” Cullen grumbles, while adjusted his stiff member under his belt and waistband. He half-lazily moves a piece in hope to end this ‘game’.

“It is true dragonflies play over bodies of fresh water.” Constance concedes with a chin nod. “They are curious creatures. I would not have chosen them as my revived house seal if dull. No, dragonflies are interesting insects. It is primarily the male you see dancing around water. The male are territorial and protective. They fight one another for ownership, signaling with color their intentions.” 

Lady Comtois moves a priest forward before resting her hand right under her breast beside the broach. “Female dragonflies have evolved to feign for themselves. You see, they can be pursued by multiple males at the same time. Such constant distractions can disrupt feeding. Most males are enchanting via colors and opportunity in hopes to mate, a common theme that reminds us we are all animals wanting the same things.” Her sapphire eyes flick to the edge of the table to highlight her fact by knowing his own arousal while speaking. Cullen coughs and moves again. Her smile grows. “The female dragonflies must take all different actions to protect herself from such unsavory men…and even other women. She will fight to the death or even play _dead_. It is all so they can just survive and provide for her growing young.”

“You chose it to defend yourself from your admirers, while stating you will turn deathly if pressed.” Cullen concludes, suddenly feeling protective. He just became one of those males she just described. Yet, he could not stop it. She can take care of herself. 

“It also claims I will protect whatever I pledge myself to, even if leading to my untimely death. My territory—my Inquisition patronage—is off limits to my fellow bards. In Orlesian eyes, my collaboration with your organization means they must cut through me before meddling in your affairs. I will pull out all the stops to defend the Inquisition’s honor. I might have not become an agent, but Andraste’s flames, I am Void-bent to serve this organization.”

The commander and the bard continue to play their chess game in silence. His guilt rises about questioning her intentions. Still, her wealth bothers him. She wishes to protect many, but she acts like Vivienne. “You could just have a metal dragonfly instead flaunting your riches.” Cullen mumbles with his amber eyes boring into the chessboard.

Constance huffs and rolls her dark blue eyes. “And here I hoped you would see beyond the _baubles_. Check.”

Cullen takes her rook to save his king. It also threatens her priest. “I told you I know little about gems. Templars rely on our faith. We have no use for such objects.” His other hand rubs the lucky coin in his pocket. Hypocrite.

“Tell that to the jeweled Chantry clerics and those golden Andraste statues at the Grand Cathedral.” Constance scolds with a finger wag and flicks her fan open. She bends forward, her breasts hanging just over the lacy corset. “What do you know the language of flowers, Cullen?”

“Just that’s it is something that my sister Rosalie is obsessed with.” The commander dismisses, remembering Mia and Rosalie reading such nonsense with their friends. “Knowing you, that was part of your personal investigations into my life.”

Constance giggles behind her mirrored reflective fan. The same gems on the dragonfly broach color the fan’s ends. “No, she is just a romantic. Her suitors need to give the right flowers to convey their feelings. She will know their intentions without a single exchange. Seeker Pentaghast and I shared a passionate conversation about flower language and cultural differences a few days ago.” She snaps her fingers, her sparkling eyes flashing to the now vacant bench. “I should have told him that. Oh well. I will see him later.” She shrugs before moving her next chess piece. Cullen takes it quickly. 

The bard makes her next move like it is an afterthought and not her pieces quickly dwindling. “Gemstones have specific language as well, but they focus on superstitions and very un-Andrastian views. As much as the Exalted Marches rewrote cultures and beliefs, a hidden mysticism underground arose among the nobility in all kingdoms. Empress Celene appointed an occult witch as her magical advisor following Madam de Fer’s departure when the Circles fell. What a face slap.” Constance whispers behind her shiny fan. “I met the witch. I warned Leliana of her presence at court. Fireworks will fly between those two soon.”

Lady Comtois claps the fan shut and shifts her body at an angle like she was reclining on a daybed for him to admire. Cullen’s fingers itch to follow her body’s natural curvy lines before dipping a finger inside her to test if she was ready for him. “Those forbidden beliefs ring many meanings and insecurities about a person. If they wear amethyst, the individual wishes to secure themselves from being embarrassed in groups or very anxious. A red jasper illustrates they have a weak heart and hope the stone will strength their failing health. Orlesians know displaying such stones scream their troubles, but they have so much faith in their magical enchanted properties they will risk life and limb. A lesser of two evils, I suppose.”

“So, what does _yours_ mean?” Cullen responds to her taking a pawn while challenging her knight. The pieces fall on the chessboard, while the weaving explanations only gets more complicated. 

Cullen hates complications, but he finally feels like he is learning something about Lady Comtois. 

No, keep her away.

The sneaky woman is just trying to help him through the negotiations. She knows he will not read those damn etiquette books Josephine shoved on his organized desk a few months ago. Constance displays the processes, forcing him to see beyond the stupid finery and question what everything actually means. She wants him to trust her just a little, to save his hide later.

But, why? 

No. Cullen should get up and leave. He has work to do. Yet, his body stays seated. His ears yearn to listen to her perfectly pitched voice and find ways to beat her at these games.

Her ladyship motions to her collar again. “You tell me.”

The commander’s intense stare studies the jewels adoring her flawless body. She even opens her arms and legs just enough to tease his struggling libido and for his eyes to admire. He burns the image into his mind for when he will definitely takes himself in hand later. “One gemstone dominates all the others. It’s a milky white, but shifts in color as you move. It’s a rainbow of color despite having a white backdrop like sunshine through clear glass prisms. The other jewel are neutral colors and shapes more to give the broach its form and reflect the actual insect.”

“Very good.” The bard praises, her false grin actually looking genuine. That brief actual expression causes Cullen’s diaphragm to hitch. He wants this woman to praise and reward him with sighs and moans of encouragement. He coughs to cover the lapse in judgement. 

Constance giggles openly. More of that inter-feeling person emerges, even if just a second. “The white milky stone is called opal. It is not a real rock like diamonds. It is a combination of many minerals, making it brittle. It cracks and breaks easily. If cared for with precise hands, it will shine its many colors. Only the most skilled jewelers use opal in new jewelry pieces.”

Constance rubs her hand beneath her chin. “A puzzling thing about opal. There is etiquette on who and when to wear the gem. Most superstitious people believed it haunted, especially if worn by someone who does not have Harvestmere as a birth month. It is silly, brought about some fictional popular book published an age ago. It breaks easily if not treated with respect and gentle hands. Unrefined wearers treat it roughly and lose all their investment, so they snub the gem. 

Her ladyship smiles at her opal ring. “I _love_ wearing it, breaking those silly rules. The few risky wearers believe it enhances the eye to see more than others, while strengthening the mind. In my profession, it is a useful bonus, even if it is rubbish. The wearer are supposedly immune to disease. I lived in the middle of a civil war where the dead outnumber the living, festering foul humours and poisoning the air. Ugh, the Exalted Plains was a cesspit.”

Those sapphire eyes stare over Cullen’s shoulder for just a second before explaining more. “Blonde women wear opals believing it will keep their hair from falling out or darkening. Another ridiculous bonus. Some people say it makes the owner turn invisible. I’m a bard!” She shrugs with an excited fake smile.

“However, how does it relate to the language of flower romance?” Constance reminds the man. Cullen tries to hide that he is actually curious about these inner meanings. “It is a transformative stone that supports one’s already strong confidence, self-esteem, and self-worth. The wearer wishes to boast their creativity and dynamics, especially in the arts. Music falls into those parameters. It reflects emotions deep inside even if not visibly shown, spreading positive energy out in the world in hopes they reflect back so all us are happy. Opal admirers wish for justice and harmony in the world, protective in the precarious situations and relaxing when safe.”

Cullen does not mind being lectured, his lips curling the more the woman explains her accessories. Suddenly, every movement transmits a message. Every twitching finger signals something. Accented words highlight their importance. Lady Comtois displays herself front and center in a way that externally looks false and condescending, but actually transmit as a set intense message. While the commander found such undertones unnecessary, listening to her explanations and behaviors draws him in learning more about her.

_No, Rutherford._

“Opals are the original language of love and desire.” Constance kisses her index fingertip before inching her queen forward. “It glimmers passions and intensity… but only for people who are willing to look beyond the white and black fore colors. I use it as a message of loyalty and faithfulness to my patrons. I rarely apply its romantic reflections. It messes with duties.”

“So, you give people a false hope with your ‘messages.’ While much of its meanings apply to you, you lure patrons specifically that they might believe they’ll gain a bedmate. It is like your male dragonflies fighting for the female at the pond.” Cullen smirks smugly. Suddenly, the man wishes to play against this presentation. Dig deeper to figure out if it just him who is fighting his lust. He will not fight it anymore. “That’s _very deceitful_. You spend this chess game explaining your Great Game like I am a child, yet you just slipped up and confirm my suspicions.”

Constance just blinks at him, reading him closely with those sapphire eyes. The commander believes the pause is her debating and determining if this is what she wants too. “Are you calling me a pure virgin, Commander? A woman who leads a partner, but does not give in so she keeps her modesty?”

“Yes.” Cullen challenges, moving his rook into position. He has her in three moves. “Noble societies state such young unmarried women must remain pure. So, you call people to follow you and give a sense of hope that you’ll never fulfill.”

She moves a last priest diagonally. The bard never noticed his flank. “I was not always a noble, Commander…” Constance coos, while licking her lips. “Ferelden taught me _much_ while I fled my guardian’s residence. It was where I first embraced opal’s _erotic_ characteristics. Now older and wiser…I am just picky.” 

Constance scratches her long neck, her lips curling higher each minute. “Yes, many potential partners chase me for my beauty, but you must not forget the fighting and surviving female dragonfly. She will feign death or bat off the undesired.” Her fingers skims over her sheer cover breasts, while widening her legs. Now, her crotch is just at the table edge. The lacy smalls covering her womanhood glisten, making the fabric nearly translucent. 

“I cannot help people find me irresistible.” She slides a pawn along the edge of the board. Her lips smack with the finger flick. “The female dragonfly choses which male territory to play in. She can move about depending on which male wins at all mating practices and dances. I do the same. I am selective. I look for people who know I am loyal, but respects I am my own person and must move on. My profession does not allow for deep relationships. Too dangerous. However, I do seek _relief_ in worthy people roaming in my presence. So _non_ , I am not a white and pure lady. I just enjoy _milking_ my chosen bedmates. Multiple ways. Many times.” Lady Comtois kicks her leg. “ _If_ they can keep up.”

The commander visibly pants while shifting his chess piece with a trembling hand. Just two moves left. His body nearly jumps at the idea this dangerous but irresistible sex symbol gazes at him as a worthy lover. All available blood and oxygen runs to his groin, his brain starving. He leans forward, spreading his legs so he does not hide his tented pants anymore. “Has such a partner fluttered into your pond, Lady Comtois?”

Her ladyship tilts her head so her shiny blonde hair shows her round ears and peeking neck. “Yes, but he refuses my company strangely.” She sarcastically sighs like she is lost on what to do. “I am not here long, and I wish for his company. He just _boorishly_ ignores my subtle tells at every turn. 

_Constance_ studies Cullen, her smile and eyes twinkling with excited hope. “I do not take it personally. I know my character dissuades him, but I stand for the same goals. I hope my lesson today has cleared up any hesitancy.” Her index and thumb play with one of the removed places as she eyes him through those long eyelashes. “He has been _very_ attentive. Although, I already knew that. Smart. Charming. Just stubborn and doubting. Still, _very_ worthy of my affections.”

“You know what else he could do…?” She pushes her other knight into a position. She did not even look down.

Cullen perks a blond brow. He nearly bites his callused knuckle to release some sexual tension. “Hmm…?” He moves his piece. One last move.

“Join in me in the lower training hall beneath the armory at sunrise.” Constance stands up and adjusts her fluffy skirts. The wet lace crotch disappears from Cullen’s view. He whimpers loudly. Rounding the table, her right hand moves her queen from one side of the board to the other. “Checkmate.”

Cullen freezes, staring at the board. He could not believe the set up. It reminds him of something Mia would do when they were children. He knows she did not cheat either. She purposely kept her hands above the table and in his view the entire game.

The commander’s molten whiskey orb darts to the exquisite woman who he cannot deny anymore. So dangerous, but he lives in a life in constant peril. Her right hand barely grazes his gloved hand, lower arm, and biceps. That light touch encircles his pauldron. Her fingertip kisses his exposed jaw beside his red lion mantle.

“I know you sleep little.” The siren purrs in his blushing ear. The sentence tells him she definitely knows the reason. Cullen confidently translates her words between the false lines now. “I might never prove I know your suffering. It is something that cannot be measured, just sensed.” She wants to hear directly about his demons, just as he wants to know hers. “Instead, I will show you how to take that suffering and grip it long and hard until it begs for mercy.” That message does not need alternate interpretation.

That soft hand leaves his pauldron, the touched skin goosefleshes and pulls tight he will need bells alone to even cut. “Adieu, Commander. Please do not make me wait. If you do not appear, I will know your final answer about me…and my onetime _offer_.”

Cullen does not look over his shoulder to see the Orlesian bard leave. Instead, his body fight every thought running through his starving mind. He wants to know this woman, but should not. While he still thinks it ridiculous Orlesians played their stupid games, now all of Josephine’s books intrigues him. However, he wants to be her student and experience it rather than read that stupidity. She waits for his answer. She will _teach_ him much, but it will not be with words. 

Constance told him repeatedly she only wished to help the Inquisition. Cullen threatens their mission with his stubbornness. Her loyalty and faithfulness to their cause allowed her to stretch all the forbidden bounds to educate him the world she hunts in.

Is Cullen bold enough and willing to play? Constance found him worthy, even if he believes himself so addicted and broken. She wants him to be free from himself. She knows how, but he will be the one who breaks the chains. She knows breaking those chains himself will be the only way to make him feel alive again. 

The only question: will he accept?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, things are heating up! Do you think Cullen will bite into this forbidden fruit? Let me know in the comments!
> 
> Thanks for reading! XD!


	7. *Galliard:  Maneuvers*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW! NOT SAFE FOR WORK! NSFW!
> 
> Warning: Slight Dom-Sub and Bondage. I know some readers are sensitive to this. Very Minor and all Consensual.
> 
> NSFW!
> 
> Chapter Song: "Another Way to Die" by Jack White and Alicia Keys (from "007:   
>  Quantum of Solace" OST)  
> Example Composition: “Trios pour le coucher du roi: Gilliarde” by Jean-Baptiste Lully
> 
> NSFW!
> 
> This chapter is inspired by [this video](https://thejeeperswife.tumblr.com/post/187923694959/mssaboteur-maneth985-lastchancefancy). It is HOT as FUCK! I will likely draw from if for other stories in the future. XD!
> 
> If you want to see Constance's outfit, I did another [fashion post](https://thejeeperswife.tumblr.com/post/613401876888682496/dms-chapter-7-fashion) on my blog today. Every piece is detailed and has meaning. ;)
> 
> NOT SAFE FOR WORK! NSFW! NOT SAFE FOR WORK!
> 
> Enjoy... XD!

* * *

The Galliard: An athletic dance that involves leaps, jumps, and hops. Only the boldest and most skilled Renaissance dancers attempted its most complex steps, which included being intimately close to one’s partner and lifting the woman while the couple turned. Many dance masters found the dance inappropriate, but people still risked it. Example Composition: Jean-Baptiste Lully’s “Trios pour le coucher du roi: Gilliarde”

* * *

Constance knows this is a terrible idea. 

Still, the Songbird of Orlais’ midnight black skirts brush the randomly rugged floor. Her maid, Lizzy, tied her train bustle as tightly as possible, but parts still slip free. She does not care how dust and debris discolors the fabric. By the end of this lesson, the gown will meet the rag pile. She prepares for the commander and she’s first dance lesson. She places each intended item around the room, her bard intentions precise this morning. Meanwhile, her brain begs to not do this. Her clitoris wins every argument. 

The bard likes this armory storeroom. It is wide with stone floors but with random old carpeting resembling a ballroom and entry ways. It will give the illusion they stand in Halamshiral about to be front and center for a single pair’s great risqué dance. The room’s rustic feel will give Cullen a familiar atmosphere so he can concentrate on her deathly lesson. The random crates and debris will settle him instead of the shadows and poorly lit spaces inducing anxiety and dread. Furthermore, the discarded weapons and armor will reinforce he is on a battlefield, just one that he will not have the strategic edge.

The bard promises herself this can only occur once. Never again. That heated conversation across the chess board pushes the bounds of her self-control. She needs to bleed this lust out of her system quickly and in one fast go. She will set the parameters clearly. No strings, never again. This is all business.

Constance’s gloved hands claw and knead a crate beside her other belongings. The bard prides herself on regulating her urges. Trusting the wrong people leads to pain and death. So, unlike her colleagues, she avoids casual physical partners. The wrong people may learn about this and harm the Inquisition. Still, it is better than some tarts Cullen bedded in the past. However, this is still dangerous and unadvisable.

Then why, Constance?

Because she cannot deny her urges any longer.

Detach. No relationships. Survive.

Constance has had her fair share of vetted and selected lovers. No chosen partner expected it to continue beyond her abrupt end.  After all, Constance is _always_ the heartbreaker. Everyone plays by _her_ rules or do not play _at all_. If they cross paths later, she _might_ begin the affair again, but that is highly unlikely. That may create false hopes like the ones Cullen accused her of just yesterday. Yes, many former playmates wished for more, but she shattered their hearts to remind them who is in control. Ones who still pushed got a dagger in the leg…and sometimes heart.

Constance does not have friends. She has acquaintances and contacts. Detach. Separate. No threats if interrogated. It protects her and them.

And then there was Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford.

Just _thinking_ his name makes her clitoris tingle. Her intimate attentions before dressing did nothing to assuage the rolling desire. Her gut craves that man’s pawing and broadness looming over her or submitting to her wildest desires. She wants to be his prey like the wild animal his epithet personifies. Then flip back that rough ecstasy two-hundred percent until he takes control again. 

Cullen taught the rogue that their chess and word  tit-for-tat likely transfer to the bedroom. He could be harsh and rough, but also cunning and witty. She knew that man existed somewhere behind those honey eyes. That genuine man laid buried under that inner filth. 

When it emerged, Constance relented and admitted one coupling will harm no one. One coupling will bleed him out of her. She will know if her fantasies possibly exist in reality. More likely, Constance will leave disappointed and conclude her expectations are never achieved. It happened more times than she counts. Commander Cullen Rutherford will be a one-and-done. No more frustrating dreams and soiled smalls. Her maid, Lizzy, is sick of her vaginal stench every laundry day.

_“ Mésanges, please avoid fucking our commander._” Leliana warned when Constance met with the spymaster that first day. _“Yes, he needs a release, but he needs someone worth committing to him. Not your brand of_ nothingness _. The women I’ve slipped his direction all failed to get a positive response. He will come around soon though…if you don’t interfere. I knew as soon you entered that ballroom, you will be trouble for that genuinely kind gentleman. Leave him be, Constance.”_

Leliana only gets protective when she dearly cares for the individual. There was a time Constance fell under her protections, but that ship sank six years ago. Once Constance told her mentor _non,_ all bets were off. 

It is no secret her wife, Hero Maya Amell of Ferelden, once was Cullen’s Circle infatuations. Rumors state the Nightingale even met Cullen during the Blight. Since then, Leliana kept tabs on the templar, even meeting him in Kirkwall before the Chantry explosion. Cullen became one of very few people under Leliana’s security.

Leliana’s bardic warning and secretive matchmaking shows she cares about Cullen like a brother. Everyone who stands around the war table—well, not the Inquisitor—were purposely selected by her for their specific leadership branches. She would not allow Divine Justinia to choose a commander or ambassador with a disagreeable past that could ruin the new organization.

Constance must be that dangerous party girl the ex-templar gawks at a social gathering. The Songbird of Orlais is not good enough for the spymaster’s little brother. The Nightingale knows her brother is no angel, but his faults make him strong and sincere. However, Constance’s deadly deeds will bring out that darkness haunting his spirit and possibly heal or—more likely—ruin his blessed soul.

Why order Constance to prepare the ex-templar for Halamshiral if she cannot bleed that blackness out in all available matters? Leliana did not forbid her seducing the commander _directly_. Will the spymaster be disappointed if the Orlesian bard sleeps with him? Absolutely. Will Leliana know it is necessary?  Of course. The Nightingale knows Constance is the capable to keep such an affair private and out of rumors. 

No, Leliana’s unapologetic threats deal with Cullen once Constance flutters away. Everyone knows Constance has an icy mechanical heart that crushes people’s souls before walking away. News of her crumbling Varric regarding Bianca reached the Nightingale quickly. At dinner, the lay sister sent warning—but approving—eye daggers at her. Leliana likely breaths in relief the Inquisitor and Josephine already share a companionship so to avoid harming either friend.

The spymaster must have a contingency plan in place for whatever Constance disrupts here. Since the commander brushes off Leliana’s previous womanly suggestions high and low, she panics now. Constance felt those icy eyes burning her neck while they played chess yesterday. Those raven-like eyes always watch the Orlesian bard, just waiting for her to make a mistake. 

That is why Constance was so straightforward at the end. She decided to taste what this commander offered, but detailed this will be a _lesson_. Any Orlesian can tempt him, especially a bard he finds two-faced and selfish. Lesson One will be what will happen when such a cold-hearted bitch uses him to warm her loins and never puts out again. He will know not to bite such disgusting creatures at Halamshiral.

_You do not want any of those diseased cunts to have him, Constance_, she thinks to herself.

Yes, true. It is better the bard hurts him than those batshit crazy Orlesians with more sexually transmitted infections than all the fish in the Waking Sea. Oh the crabs in the imperials court…and not the ocean kind either.

Constance drinks from her wineglass, her sapphire eyes staring at a nearby burning torch. “Come in, Commander, and do lose the sword and dagger. This is a dance, not a duel.”

Clacking boots finish their descent from the armory. “With you, Lady Comtois, a man cannot be _too_ careful.”

Again with the titles. Cullen hangs onto the last formal speech like a noose. He comes knowing nothing will be formal and professional, but still holds the title hoping it will save him. Maker, he lost control of his libido before she introduced herself at the marquis’ estate. He surely saluted her before _saluting_ her.

“If you wanted careful, why come?” Constance questions with a perked brow. She pivots to the arched doorway where her new student leans against the frame.

“I am a commander. My life is never safe.” Cullen states with a smirk. “Especially when her ladyship sends her maid to my quarters with these clothes.”

Constance reviews his revolting outfit. It is a same uniform he wore to the opera performance. She can tell he is uncomfortable, especially with the top jacket button undone. The metal armor pieces are missing. “Lady Montilyet willingly parted with it since the new uniform are black and silver. Besides, I think you will you will prefer wearing that than your armor. I will not disappoint you, I promise.” She takes another wine sip.

“Drinking before sunrise?” The commander quips, unbuckling his broadsword from his hip. He already laid his dagger beside her rapier on the crates.

“What should I be drinking?”

“Water.” That baritone replies like she asked a stupid question.

“Fish fuck it in.” Constance grins, enjoying his alarm hearing her cuss for the first time.

Cullen’s brow puckers. “ _Pardon?!_ ”

“Fish screw in water. Why would I want to drink that?”

Cullen slams down his sheathed sword. “It rehydrate you more than wine? You know we can boil it if that worries you so much.”

Constance giggles, rolling her electric blue eyes. “Just because something is boiled does not erase what occurred before. Think about the sheets at your blessed Blooming Rose. Just because you went at the beginning of the night with clean sheets does not remove the bedbugs in the mattress.” The Fereldan commander groans, pinching his nose. His response is not for her counterpoint, but for how much she knows about his former activities. “You’re a healthy male, Cullen.” She clicks her tongue and rolls her deep blue eyes. “I tease because it entices the most _charming_ sounds from your throat. The sooner you learn to hold that in, the sooner your future Orlesian harlots—who also know your former activities—will pout and walk away.”

Cullen lifts his head as Constance finishes her wine glass and walks towards the room center lit by a hanging chandelier. “How many people know about my…?” He searches the darkness, panicked. 

Constance slips on a black mask, tying it around her blonde bun held in place by two jeweled sticks. She pats down her black brimmed hat so everything is secure. “Anyone can hire spies. Anyone and everyone wants to know about the Inquisition’s Inner Circle, especially the War Council. With you the only male and its commander, just assume everyone in the Winter Palace’s ballroom knows your preferences and stamina. They wish to determine if their daughter will catch your eye or you are up for the night’s orgies.” Cullen gulps, eying her empty wineglass. His whiskey gaze craves a drink now. For a confident, healthy man, _talking_ about sex and flirtation makes him antsy. 

“Let us begin our lesson _officially_.” Cullen watches her from beside their belongings. She can see his mind trying to determine if her offer yesterday in the garden was a farce. She smirks. “Everything in due time. I have one just one dance lesson planned today, one that will save your life: the _Danse Macabre_ ….you know it?”

“No.” He grunts, his irritation to her supposed lie and betrayal discoloring his Fereldan features.

“It is an allegory to demonstrate a single fact. All living beings have this verity in common. No matter a beggar or the Archon, the dance is one everyone will experience someday…” Cullen listens intently, though his gritting teeth still shows his frustration. Constance’s angelic voice turns feral. “…we all _die_.” Constance reaches between her corseted breasts and pulls out a dagger. She twirls it in her hands before throwing it at the belt loop on Cullen’s sheath sword. Cullen barely jumps out of the way before it embeds deep into the crate, thus making his weapon useless unless he wants exposure for a long period. “The scenario: you are at Halamshiral. A harlequin makes herself known while you dance with her. She will tell you only one thing before the fight begins…” Constance curtsies and wickedly grins. “ _I am still armed._ Find them all, Commander...or die.”

Constance drops the edge of her gown and grabs the two blades tied into her boot lances and lunges. Cullen dodges, reaching for his dagger. However, the bard already accounted for such a move. The dagger is missing. Realization flashes across his features as she twirls that very blade in her left hand. “You’re unarmed, Commander, but you know where to find more. The question I have for you is are you _daring_ enough to find them.”

“You think this is the first time I have fought disarmed, _Bard_?” Cullen grunts, weaving around her strikes. His eyes are only on the blades and her bending body, not where they _should_ be.

“No, but you assume just one of mine will be enough!” Constance twirls, roundhouse kicking. Suddenly, several uniform buttons fly as he narrowly bends backwards. Cullen pats the uniform, realizing there has been a razor sharp cut through the wool fabric. A quick glance at her boot heel tells him everything. The stiletto heel is not just any point, but a blade. “You glad I chose that _hideous_ uniform than your other garments?”

Cullen chuckles, positioning himself for her next dive. “What will Josephine think?”

“Nothing that some Orlesian dark chocolate truffles and expensive Antivan wine will pacify.” Constance laughs and races forward. “They arrive at tea time today.”

The Fereldan warrior is ready for her now, stepping to the right as the first dagger goes for his chest. He predicts the other, twisting her wrist not covered by a dressy bracer. He presses between the tendons and waits for his dagger to fall from her loosen grasp. 

However, his eyes are only on the blades he has accounts for. Constance reaches for her hat after spinning free of his grasp. A few tossed curls cut from his dishevel hair when he ducks. He kicks her away, feeling his head. He pouts at the lost blond hair fluttering to the dust floor.

Constance spins her blade-rim hat on her other dagger. “Men accessorize not just for fashion but to get an advantage. A cane or umbrella is an usual choice, but unchecked hats are a dead giveaway there is more than means the eye.” She frisbees the deadly hat at Cullen, who rolls out of the way. His head whips around to see it wedge into a wooden support beam right behind him. His uniform tails hang from beneath it.

“You think I forgot that Orlesians are the most dishonorable people?!” Cullen hollers with his daggers aiming for her stomach. “I’m _fucking_ Fereldan!”

Constance dances away. They stab and block with their blades. The metal sings through the air as both people wickedly beam and pant during their first dance. The thrill just spurs Constance on, her muscles aching. He challenges her with his blunt and broody attitude. She should not enjoy this, but she lets her laughter echo through the room. “We might be dishonest, but we live and spin the stories in our favors!”

Cullen’s dagger cuts through her puffy skirts, but misses her legs. He uses the snag to twist the skirt around her other hand to drop that dagger. “One reason Fereldans avoid fluffy gowns, milady.”

However, the snarky man does not account for the obvious now. He is only beginning to search, but not fast enough. Constance knows he is more creative and resourceful than this. His Kirkwall strategies and well-executed siege prowess during Adamant told her that. 

Drawing from her hair are stick stiletto blades. Her buttery blonde hair tumbles down, but he does not see it since the skirts block his view. She stabs through the gown and ribs it up. She feels more resistance. Golden and red ties from his jacket fly as he quickly breaks his hold and drives away.

“And Orlesian noblewomen know they will only wear such gowns _once_. You just never saw why until now.” The bard laughs and winks as she cut her wrist free. She drops the other stiletto in her palm. Again, she is fully armed. “We do not want everyone thinking we lack the funds to buy something new for every party, _non_?”

“Ugh!” Cullen scuffs as he blocks her stabs. Since the stilettos are only for stabbing, he just pushes away the points and follow through with slicing through her flaying skirts. The black gown turns into cloth strips that trail behind her. Her tied bustle fell minutes ago. He likely expects her to trip on one of them, but her boot blade heels just cut them off.

Seeing a new opportunity, Constance flips over him off a crate. Before he can turn, she hooks her stiletto point in his jacket collar and rips down. She cuts the uniform jacket’s neck down between his shoulder blades. She purposely forces the blade end away from his body to avoid injury, but a finger flick could easily change that. If an assassination, he would be dead now. The point breaks and forces Constance to leave it to fall out to avoid his counterstrike. “That’s why you must always keep the neck collar buttoned, darling! Most jacket collars have a metal or thick fabric sown in to protect the wearer.”

Cullen chuckles, ripping the ruined jacket off his body. He touches his neck as broken metal clamors on the stone floor. Small drops of blood paint his fingertips, likely just a scratch. “It’s like I’m back in Kirkwall.”

Constance twirls on her bladed boot heel. “What? Being backstabbed?” She halters her spin, seeing that Cullen flipped his dagger around to slice and barely miss her bare chest. She drops her other hair stiletto and grabs her mask. His strike flies through one eye hole. She twists the metal mask around to twist the blade from his grasp. Both items go flying.

“No, to be vigilant and never think a blood mage doesn’t have a hidden blade. In Kirkwall, someone ever tries to kill you, you try to kill ‘em right back!” The commander exclaims, grabbing Constance from behind. She pulls on her ring attached to her wrist device, which springs another blade from her dressy bracer. Cullen shoves the bracer away from stabbing him in the gut. The commander jams it into a nearby crate to break the thin blade and almost her hand.

Cullen’s other hand clutches her ruined skirts. While twirling away, the offensive skirt tears from the strapless corset top. The man’s whiskey eyes widen, studying the woman before him. “Maker’s breath!”

Constance drops her broken bracer, hand aching but okay. She knows it does not surprise him on how bare she is beneath, but for the number of blades attached to her wire bustle and legs. Most armaments are throwing knives. She grabs the first two. “What?” She spins them on her middle fingers playfully. “You never wondered why us ladies take so long to dress?”

“Only you, Lady Comtois.” Cullen groans, his eyes hovering on her moisten groin peeking from under the corset point.

“Still with the title…” Constance scolded with a two tongue clicks. She sends her first throwing daggers. One finds its target in Cullen’s wide leg pant above his scuffed boot lip. It wedges itself in the wooden box behind him. He cannot pull it free to dodge the other flying blade, so he rips the fabric. “You forget what I permitted days ago, Cullen?”

Cullen dashes beside her, grabbing one of the longer blades on her bustle before cutting through its belt. The wire frame falls from her hourglass body. Her hand pulls another blade from her girdle belt. “And I didn’t give you leave to call me by my first name.”

The two knives sing as the metal vibrates through the hilts. Constance twirls a ring and uncaps it, flinging powder into his face. “Oh, how I just love seeing you blush hearing it on my lips.” The commander coughs the powder away, but it still blocks his sight. Shocked, he accidently drops his blade to wipe the mixture from his face. She uses the moment to cut open his tunic, just grazing his chest to send two blood drops through the air. “Just facial powder, by the way. Never get that close to a bard like that or you will not live through your next breath!”

A huge puff of powder flies back at Constance as Cullen snorts the white powder in her face. He tears the ruined shirt from his body and brings it over Constance’s neck to try to strangle her from behind. “You don’t need blades to kill someone, miss.”

Constance uses her boot heel blades to kick him away, sending both people flying backwards against a wooden support. She wiggled a hand under the cloth and cuts through it with her diamond ring. She heaves forward, coughing. “No, but we women learned ways to free ourselves from such unscrupulous barbarism.”

Cullen eyes her as the bard draws her last two throwing knives. “You mocking my homeland, Constance?”

The lady nearly falls over. Suddenly, the tables turn. She does not know her name in that husky baritone would instantly make her lose her balance. Maybe it is better that he said it now with them tearing clothes and weapons off one another than in the garden yesterday. She would have flipped the chess set over, grabbed him by the mantle, and mounted his throbbing penis right there.

Maker, Constance wants him terribly. That cock intruding her. Pounding that lady like he is an Avvar thane, and she his stolen prize…

Constance throws a blade, but she misses her intended target. “If the shoe fits.” Instead, it just bounces off the wooden pillar Cullen jumps from to avoid the strike. It clatters to the floor. He scoops it up, armed again.

Focus on the bloody duel, Constance!

“Such a refined woman offers to train me in her bard ways, but finds me rough and ferocious. It makes no sense.” Cullen comments, while dodging her other throwing knife. He drives for Constance and shoves her against a stack of crates. The boxes fall to the ground. His own throwing knife cuts the back ties of the dress corset until the fabric falls away. Suddenly, his face meets her barely covered bosom only held in place by a sheer half bodice. Her nipples lay just shy of the edge.

Constance reaches for the support wire pushing her breasts upward and pulls out her last weapon: piano wire. She uses it to twist around the button and ties keeping his pants on his hips and twists. With the pant dropping down, Constance knees him away, causing him to stumble and falls backwards. “Sometimes even the finest and well-trained women like being conquered by common ill-mannered heathens.”

Without the wire, the corset slides from Constance’s shapely body so her breasts freely dance with her dance-like movements. Cullen rip the pants and boots off his feet, his eyes glued on her freed naked form. He breaks free right as Constance jumps forward with the piano wire. He grabs a broken crate board, blocking the wiring’s thin edge. He twists it out of her hands and throws both items over his shoulder. With one last move, he grasps her waist, roars and thrusts her against solid boxes wedged against the stone walls. Crates, barrels, and other items tumble and crash against the flagstones.

“Give it up, Constance.” The commander towers over her, her hands penned above her head. “You’re naked and out of blades.”

Ever defiant, Constance perked a blonde brow. He feels his thick arousal against her abdomen through his tied smalls. “Oh, am I, Templar?”

Cullen reviews her body, his sweats and panting not just from their fight now. The sexual charge thickens the air every second. His whiskey irises slowly get swallowed by inky black pupils. He presses his chest against her pink nipples, while wedging his knee between her legs just so she cannot use her boot blades, which are likely broken by now.

His amber stare flicks to her lacy-covered groin before back to her sapphire eyes. “You wouldn’t…”

Constance rolled her eyes. “You evidently never been threatened with rape before.”

Instantly, Cullen pulls away from her, hands up and eyes concerned. However, she flicks her right leg up, around his hip, and pulls him back to her nude form. It warms her that he would be such a gentleman even if this whole thing was _her_ idea. “Not suggesting you would do such a thing. Just highlighting to never assume what a woman—and some creative men—would or would not do to protect herself in a precarious situation.”

The commander sighs in relief that he has not pushed her into this. “The fact you all have to do that in the first place states how evil this world actually is.”

“The scenario still stands, though. The harlequin has to fulfill the assassination or die trying. Did I or not?” Constance quizzes, her face mute. She grinds her pelvis against his full length member. She loves every part she feels through the thin fabric. She never doubted his size, but definitely will appreciate the experience.

If he dares.

Constance reads his expression well. He debates not about checking but more if he has leave to. He wants clear permission. “You may.” She smiles at his respectful consent. She presses her wrists against his lion grasp above her head. Both of his paws hold firm. Soon, blood circulation leaves her fingertips. She loves it.

“I don’t trust you if I let go.” Cullen growls, leaning closer to her flush face. She smells that earthly musk of oakmoss, elderflower, sweat, and _him_ she noticed that night in the ballroom. It sends her clit aflame as it did those weeks ago. Maker, she will not bathe after this just to avoid removing his scent from her flawless skin. Hang her messy state for that breakfast function.

“Then you will never know…” She rolls her hips again. He moans as his nose nudges her hers.

“You’re a demon, Constance…” He shifts her wrists into one hand, while the other slowly flows down her left arm, over her shoulder, and around her breast. He fists the flesh in his sword callused palm. Constance bucks, her back arching off the boxes. His stubble jaw brushes her jaw. “You’re a lyrium demon that calls to me to drown in that addiction again. I beat it before, but I can’t stop myself with you like this.”

Finally, he admits he fights lyrium addiction. She reminds him of the drug he conquered over the last year. He resisted her for the week, thinking they were the same source. “You will find, Ex-Templar, I am neither thing.” She bumps her nose against his. “You will quit me just as you strike down twisted spirits and denied the blue dwarven mineral. You will have to. If you do not think you can _stop now_.”

“So, it is only this time or never.” Cullen confirms, his fingers releasing her breast and continuing downward. His thumb catches her lacy smalls.

“Yes.”

“Is this for me…or do you think you cannot have just a taste? Addiction is plausible for you too.”

Constance’s lungs do not hitch, but she knows he feels her heart speed up. “Do not flatter yourself.” Her smalls slide from her hips before he rips them from her slim body. 

The ruined fabric falls to the ground. “As you’ve pointed out, I have my share of lovers.” She gasps as his thick fingers intrude her. He gives no pause for her to stretch, coating his fingers in her nectar deep inside her soft walls. He finds her bundle of nerves deep within and her clitoris at once. “Has your information ever told you _why_ I visited the same women time and time again?” He leaned towards her ear. Just a whisper, he speaks, “Because they never charged once they discovered what I can do.”

Constance fights against his strong grip on her hands. Just the few circles he does to each nerve cluster pushes her close to the edge. She never climbs so fast. He is not boasting for his ego alone like most men. No, Constance reads him right as those amber orbs meet electric blue. He knows what he does for his lovers because he listens, watches, and learns. He is a man of action, the perfect student.

Then his fingers leave her cunt.

That strong hand lets go of her wrists.

His hard, broad body steps away.

Cullen knows how close she was, the _fucker!_

“But, if that’s your only options, then…” He eyes her before turning away, shrugging. “Oh well, I guess.”

“You _bastard!_ ” Constance screams, grabs his arms, and pulls him flesh to her again. Her pink lips marry his; her tongue driving into that scarred mouth. The commander moans as he shudders around her.

Cullen leans into her, his hands not idle as he scratches and roams her body frantically. His smugness was a farce, and she fell for it. She does not care. They both do not have the control and will to say no right now. That does not mean Constance cannot say it _later_. He will listen to her decline. 

It might only be once still.

So make this one _count!_

Constance’s nails drag down his biceps and shoulders as Cullen swallows each mewl and gasp rolling up her throat. His rough hands fist her hips and grab her breasts on the journey southward. Their tongue dance together. Lips and jaws move fanatically. He lifts her easily until her other leg wraps around his waist. His fingers only leave her for a second to untie his smalls before returning to her tacky skin to learn every curve.

The bard breaks their kiss as his penis head rubs against her dripping folds. She stills as that thick long cocks sinks inch by delicious inch inside her cunt. She feels her inner muscles stretch and mold around him. Finally, something beyond her dildo that fills her so well!

“Maker, Constance…” Cullen shudders and groans into the crook of her neck. He kisses the soft skin as he fully sheathes himself inside her. “You’re… _fuck_.” All the while, Constance pants against his stubble cheek. Her fingers wind into his tossed hair. How could she cut off such soft twisting curls before? She takes in his unique scent around her. She must commit everything to memory and replayed in all her lonesome fantasies.

Slowly, the commander withdraws himself as slowly as he entered to savor the moment. His tip just barely sit inside her before his hips snaps and drive deep into again. Constance cries, nails digging into his biceps, drawing blood. She feels the slow retract, but he leaves her guessing on when he will bury again. When he does, she is exhaling so her lung cannot release any pleasurable sound. It feels better each time he does this like he can sense her climbing and how to control it just so.

Constance’s body flushes and rubs raw against his coarse chest hair. Her legs feel sore so tightly wrapped around his core, but he will not let her do anything. He wants to do it all. Each pump and kiss is his command, a true demonstration to his exclaim. He knows she can make the sex pleasurable, but this is him displaying _what she must want again_. It is a war of wills and desires. Each time Constance predicts him hitch or withdraw, he changes it, leaving her guessing and begging like a whore’s gasps and whimpers. Any early rising blacksmiths above must hear her begging for that thick cock.

Then the pace escalates. Cullen thrusts deeper and harder as she reaches her limit. He holds onto her near orgasm like a vise, waiting and teasing his mate until he nearly loses control. She bites his ear and neck, marking him in ways he will be hard-pressed to hide. He will still to be the mannered commander he presents the world…just with well-earned battle scars. If he denies her, then she will do the same.

Cullen shifts so his penis brushes her inner nerves and his hips graze that outer pearl. Constance’s blue eyes squeeze shut as a hollowing cry rolls from her bruised lips. She cannot keep the tidal wave anymore, and he finally lets her jump over the cliff. With his next precise thrust, she falls into the white, the orgasm so colossal and majestic, she cannot remember any explosion before this. He keeps this fierce pace, extending it as her quivering walls grip him until he follows her over the edge. She milks him for each drip he spills inside her. She took precautions, but she can tell he did not plan to spill like this. They both surprise each other with this intense tango.

No wonder the whores never charged him, _and this is just a quickie!_

The euphoric tide finally passes, and she falls back to earth. Constance lets her locked ankles fall away so she can stand. However, her legs and body are jello from her _magnificent_ explosion. Cullen fairs little better, using the crates to support himself. He kisses her shoulder as she buries her nose into his sweaty chest.

“Constance…” the man, who has now spoiled her future lovers for years, speaks with just one amber eye burning down at her. “You ruined me….” He shakes his head and pinches his nose. “I mean my clothes.”

Constance barely smiles and pants. She pats his shoulder. “I stole your favorite tunic and riding pants from the laundry yesterday. You think I would have you run across Skyhold after _that_ performance.”

“You?” Cullen pants as he tucks moist, buttery blonde waves behind her ear. “Yes.”

Constance giggles and kisses his scarred lip one last time. It must be one last time desperate her body wanting him again. She is ready for another exploring performance. “I do not share such enchanting sights with those who will not appreciate them.”

“Even if only if _you_ will only see them now?” He knows she will not let this happen again. His half-closed orbs try to hide the disappointment.

“Because you have an image to uphold, Commander.” Constance remarks before slipping away. The roles return. Rational finally conquers a satisfied clit. “The Inquisition comes first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need a cold shower...
> 
> So, what do you all think? You believe this is a one time deal or will Cullen and Constance turn into jack rabbits? ;) Let me know in the comments!
> 
> Thank you all for your support and appreciation. You all keep me going on the bad days. Thank you for reading and coming back every week. :)


	8. Courante:  Personal Opinions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy Everyone! I have a favor to ask. I noticed "Danse Macabre" is not as appealing to many readers. I know it is an original character story and not inquisitor-based. However, I would like to know if there is something else that you all might not like. Is it the writing, the characters, or something else? 
> 
> I am usually not this forward about matters, but over the last several years, I've been working towards evolving my writing and regaining my speech. "Danse Macabre" is the first time I'm trying new things, so I might have made some wrong choices. If you can give me some constructive criticism or opinions in the comments, I would deeply appreciate it. Please be nice about it. "It sucks" does not tell me why or anything about improving. Thank you!
> 
> Chapter Song: “Crazy” by Seal  
> Example Composition: Johann Sebastian Bach’s “Partita for Violin Solo No. in D Minor, II. Corrente”
> 
> Did you know "Danse Macabre" has a [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/12b3SD7p34f5XEix43C2hH?si=1G7BQ-hAR-KZoodNktkqxw) and [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLw4onCkm8zQYchaAk_kjZIfmI7xVeWXtu) playlists? Go and check them out! Subscribe to be informed of new updates!
> 
> Slightly NSFW (Mental Sexual Thoughts)
> 
> Trigger Warning: Talk of assassinations, death of known characters, and dismemberment used to describe known bards.

* * *

The Courante: Meaning “running”, this Renaissance dance involved running and jumping steps. The movements included short advances and retreats between partners. Accompanying music was usually very passionate and heartfelt so the dancers experiences deep longing and gratifying sweet expectations. Example Composition: Johann Sebastian Bach’s “Partita for Violin Solo No. in D Minor, II. Corrente”

* * *

Constance leaves Skyhold by dinner. Once the Inquisitor arrives back from the Storm Coast, she requests the Orlesian bard to speak with surrounding Emprise du Lion nobility on the Inquisition’s behalf. Seleem and Josephine know Constance will be quicker and more effective than letters, especially regarding the organization’s next expedition. The Inquisitor and ambassador give her ladyship a list of what she can and cannot promise before sending her on her way. The bard remarks she may stay in the region a few more days, contacting some acquaintances high and low who may have intelligence about the region beneficial to Leliana’s scouts and when the Inquisitor arrives in a week’s time.

Cullen learns all this during the next morning’s War Council. He keeps a straight face, especially since he feels Leliana’s icy stare on his right cheek. She likely knows exactly what occurred under the armory the day before. She likely knows how Constance left several purple biting bruises at the crook of his neck and shoulder like the animal he knows she can be. Somehow, the spymaster probably learned somehow he has eight sore nail claws down his back from when Constance’s orgasm crashed so hard he thought her last hidden blade was her nails elongating and stabbing his shoulder blades.

The Inquisitor reports the Ventori’s Storm Coast red lyrium mine was dismantled. She feels confident they can strike the main mine efficiently and effectively before Halamshiral. She requests Cullen to accompany her, her Qunari features softening because she knows being around the red mineral makes him sick. Cullen salutes and feels honored in her strong faith that he can resistance the tainted hum. Leliana does not look exactly happy about the request, giving reasons why Josephine and she needs him in Skyhold until the ball.

“I have no reservations actually…” Josephine side-eyes him. “… _if_ he actually attends his personal dance practices.” She knows he has been skipping Lady Comtois’ lessons. “If not, he will need to attend the group lessons with Dance Master Feuillet and the other Inner Circle members. I arranged his lessons to avoid scheduling conflicts, but he ignores them anyways.” She frowns at his left cheek.

Cullen feels like he is ten again and stuck at the dinner table between Mia and Rosalie.

Seleem scrunches her brow. “But Lady Comtois stated he did well during his first lesson yesterday.” Cullen coughs into his hand to mask the shock. Maker, that quick and ravenous fuck was considered a _lesson_?!

Oh yes, he learned plenty about that woman, like other ways to make her _sing._

Leliana mumbles under breath so only Cullen hears. “I bet she did…”

The meeting continues. Cullen writes notes on which soldiers to request for the assault, and Rylen will need to oversee in the meantime. The commander is the last person to leave the room once the meeting adjourns. He finishes reviewing the journey route on the major maps, gathers his paper, and walks through the wooden doors.

“Commander, a moment.”

Cullen freezes, his amber eyes snapping to the still woman leaning against the wall in the hall torches’ shadow. Her chainmail barely rattles as she pushes herself off the wall. 

Of course Leliana wants to speak. His whiskey eyes dart down the stone hall. Josephine’s office door is closed. There are no voices echoing from the other side of the garden wall or in the apothecaries where the tranquil and alchemists work.

“Of course, Seneschal.” Cullen replies roughly, waving down the hall to walk and talk.

Leliana shakes her head once. Not a discussion she wishes others to overhear. “It is considering Lady Comtois…”

Cullen pinches his nose. “Of course it does.” 

“You likely know what this concerns.” Her voice is flat, the Orlesian accent blunt like when she wants explanations from prisoners.

He flips his hand with all his papers upward. “And if I do?”

“Constance is here until the ball. She _will not_ remain after Halamshiral.” Leliana reminds him cordially. “Even if she remains in our service—which is unlikely—she is better in Val Royeaux or in Queen Anora’s court gathering information and handling matters for us there. _Very_ far away from Skyhold.”

Cullen grunts, gripping his broadsword hilt. “For someone you called a friend and told me just a week ago to trust, you want her quickly out of Inquisition affairs.”

“And as you stated, her lack of commitment is worrisome. Do you think I don’t investigate why she leaves here on her ‘personal duties’? She knows I search and find little. Whatever she takes part in threatens the Inquisition in some capacity.”

The commander growls, staring Leliana in the eye. “Then why let her stay?”

“Because we need her _now_.” The spymaster declares frankly. “we require her information and insight for both the Inquisitor’s and your _professional_ benefits. Josephine cannot prepare you both in time, while the coin and influence Lady Comtois generates here benefits us greatly. _For now_.” 

Leliana takes a step forward, her neck tilting so she can meet his challenging glare. “I told you traveling to her performance do not consider her good-natured. I know how brutal she can be. She never stays, never commits.”

“I know that clearly, Leliana.” Cullen retorts, twisting his grip around his hilt until his leather gloves creak. “She made it quite clear to me. _Twice_.”

“Yet, you still you slept with her anyways.” The Left Hand of the Divine finally confirms. Those icy light blue eyes just needed to be a little dark to match Constance’s intensity. Understanding Constance a little actually assists Cullen in avoiding Leliana’s intimidation. 

Leliana knows it too.

“Yes, because we’re bloody adults. It was consensual and explicitly stated it would only be for one time.” Cullen confessed with a grunt. “It’s better than me fucking a barmaid. I know my actions are watched by allies and enemies alike, Leliana. A man in my position must keep appearances, right?” Constance’s ending comment after their coupling rings in his mind.

“But a barmaid can disappear, be paid off, or sent on a one-way ship to Antiva. This isn’t Haven anymore, and we are not a small, beginning counter-Chantry order anymore.” The former bard hisses through her teeth. “Constance is high profile. People see her more than the Inquisitor in many ways. Whatever she is up to now reflects back on you because you thought with your penis.”

“Good thing it just happened one time.” Cullen admits, despite his whole being wishing it is not true.

Leliana rolls her eyes before walking down the hall. “No, Cullen. It’s never once. You’ve had a taste. They _designed_ Constance to summon whoever she wants to follow. Anything goes to keep the upper hand. This will end like Constance ends all things: she has a glacial black heart. The Frostback peaks are warmer than her care and loyalty. She will smash you to pieces, and you’ll stupidly thank her for it.”

Cullen laughs once, shaking her head. “All because we kissed and fucked?!”

The seneschal freezes and twirls around. “You kissed?!”

The commander groans and pinches his nose again. “Isn’t that people do screwing each other?” Why is he still standing here?! Why does he feel like he is getting reprimanded by the academy’s Chantry sisters for sneaking a woman into the barracks?

Leliana looks taken aback for a moment. Then her indifference flicks back into place. “Constance never kisses. Kisses, like hugs and cuddling, mean feelings. True intimacy creates relationships. There is only ever her and the mission.” Her boots click against the flagstones, leaving Cullen staring at her hood head. What the Void just happen?!

That was six days ago.

Now, late at night, Cullen still cannot shake that little information from his thoughts. His tired eyes watch as his lucky silver coin spins on his candlelit papers. It falls over once losing its momentum. His callused hand ache from bells of sparring and training against his officers and soldiers. He finds new ways to burn through the urges and regrets, but it all only spurs him to consider and hope for something more.

Cullen just picks up the coin and spins it on its smooth side again. Its ringing sound and clacks against the hardwood reminds him of the tumbling crates and sighs leaving her majestic lips during their heated coupling. His skin burns to touch the smoothest skin down her arms, around her breasts, and follow her hips. His lips only taste that flawless softness he only enjoyed a few times, but they barely do justice.

Those plump pink lips compared with nothing. Every lip he kissed before pale in comparison. She kissed him. She never kisses. Cullen wonders if it is more so her lover is not instantly bewitched with their softness and must earn the privilege first. Had he earned it when she grabbed his head and whipped him back against her perfect body?

And that wicked tongue that always challenged and lectured. It stretched long down his throat, unlike any whore or experienced woman he ever encountered. His mind blanked right then, imagining its twisting and deep throating his cock with little issue.

Cullen groans and leans forward. He rubs his face and red-shot eyes. He needs to focus. Yet, within a few seconds reading a requisition, his mind filters back to how those firm breasts jiggled each time he hitched into her. He flips the parchment back down on his clutter desk. There is no use. He ignores the remaining duties he must complete before living for Emprise du Lion in three days. Just like the last few nights, his personal thoughts plague him too much to think of anything beyond the intoxicating Songbird of Orlais.

If Cullen could only have that woman once, he wished he done it all differently. Yes, their dagger duel was definitely _interesting_ and _invigorating_. Maybe that is why sparring with his troops did nothing for him. 

However, the Fereldan commander was too quick to plunge into that soft heat his fingers barely stimulated. Thinking about it now makes him regret all things he wanted to do to Constance that single fuck. The commander envisions so many things since meeting her. Now, he will never know. Instead, he just knows the peeking realization of everything that bard offers, but he will never have again.

Leliana was right on that horrific fact.

Evidently, like the female dragonfly that represents her House, Constance chooses only select males. Those lucky few have a taste, then will do anything and everything for that opportunity again. Except, Constance knows all the ways to avoid them. Instead, they turn into the imbeciles Cullen observed proposing and kneeling at her feet at the performance. If they were not her once bed fellows, they were the lucky ones. Their imaginations will save them from this void Cullen rolled in right now.

Yet, of all her other lovers, Constance never kissed them. Well, from what Leliana knew about her former student. They must have tried, but Constance controls everything. She avoided it or likely stabbed them if they acted against her will.

However, she kissed _him_.

Yes, Cullen acted like he would leave. He waited for her to beg and finish what he started. Her lips over his felt fantastic, making him wonder if she was a mage because how the sensation sent shocks down his spine. Her tongue dripped into his mouth. He welcomed it just like her body accepted all of his girth and long shaft just moments later.

For a woman who controls and blocks out connections, _Constance kissed him_. What did that mean? Nothing likely. They both lapsed in judgement during that whole _lesson_. However, Cullen will say that was the best sex he ever had even if it was rough, fast, and over before it even begin. He told her right. She ruined him. How is he supposed to find that barmaid Leliana offered now knowing that magical haven lived just a walk away?

Cullen flips the coin in the air and catches it. He stands with purpose. He nudges his painful erection under his waistband and pivots around his desk. He needs to get out of his head. It is over. Leliana did her lecture. Constance made it clear nothing more will happen.

Shoving his lucky coin in his pocket, the commander decides a refreshing walk will cool his roaring libido. It will have to for now. Masturbating does little. That fiend even ruined daily maintenance, too.

Only a few people mill around the grand hall at the hour. He takes that route to drop off some missives and messages for the next outbound ravens. Cullen just nods to his men on duty while pacing towards the Chantry. Most people are already asleep, but a maid enters Josephine’s hallway with a tea cart with cookies. Bottles of various wines and liquors rattle in the shelf below the tea kettle. Maker, she is entertaining late. Maybe he will stop in on his way back just to interact with other people before staring at his mounting paperwork and going to bed frustrated.

When the commander reaches the Chantry, he hears the lay sisters and Mother Giselle singing the Chant together. He grimaces, hearing the current hymn. His mind instantly rejects the act of singing, not the Chant itself. Song reminds me of times long lost. They represent souls lost too young and innocent.

Cullen cannot believe he sang in the mountains all those months ago. His voice sounded raspy and unused. He dismissed it for the cold air, but he knew it was because he refused to sing _anything_ anymore. There was a time he could not stop singing. The academy praised his singing voice despite puberty, making him croak like a frog. The young templar recruits choir even sang for the Grand Cleric of Denerim.

Then Cullen quit the choir. He vowed never to sing again, much to the academy revere mother’s disappointment. Every time he hears the notes and pitches, it brings back that haunting memory. A little elven face so terrified and hiding from bullies. Singing reminds him of that time where he defended someone and stood like he thought a templar would. Learning from Mia that angelic voice succumbed to the world’s evils made him reject singing. All he heard with each note was the dead’s cries into the Void.

That night in the Frostbacks reminded Cullen he still lived. Since then, song surrounded him, reminding him that he still survived his hells, while that little elf did not. He even slept with a singer just a few days ago, her pitch perfect voice always calling to his lyrium deprived soul.

The commander steps away from the Chantry doors, leaving the clerics to their nightly chanting. He does not want to hear anymore. He will speak the Chant, but will never sing it. The memory still wounds him, just like Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall.

_“Instead, I’ll show you how to take that suffering and grip it long and hard until it begs for mercy.”_

Constance offers release from such tortures. She knows about his lyrium addiction. He admitted it during their passions. She can show him how to purge his soul’s blackness. Leliana said she had an icy black heart. Who better to assist him bleeding the demons from himself than someone who needs to do the same for herself?

* * *

“Le Loup?”

Constance taps the wineglass against her lower lip. She thinks for a moment before grinning. “A strange little man who was likely _raised_ by wolves than just wearing a mask depicting one.”

Seleem, Leliana, and Josephine giggle. The four women watch Josephine’s office fireplace as Constance thinks of the next name to mock. She only arrived back just after dark. The women met over her new information and how else she could assist their next expedition. Constance thought she would be gone longer. However, the winter weather blocked her access to one of her contact’s homes. She knew enough that will give the Inquisition an advantage and returned before a winter storm—or an ice dragon—killed her.

Returning also meant a specific commander is close to her again. 

She can resist. 

Constance drinks a large gulp of rose wine to block out her instantly responding body. Every time that man’s face flashes in her mind, her body screamed for more. How can such a fantastic man be single and so alone? His cock alone is a blessing by the Maker let alone his entire sculpted body. It is a crime he does not have a dozen curly haired brats running around just to spread that uniquely gorgeous seed far and wide. Damn lyrium’s contraceptive properties. 

Not that Constance wants to be a mother _ever_.

Forget all that. The bard broke too many rules already. She made a decision, and he knows it. Still, she wants to break more steadfast rules that has kept her alive and well for a decade. Once Constance breaks one, the others may crumble and leave more pain and suffering in her wake. She cannot let that happen. Another woman can praise that chiseled chest and templar stamina. He just needs to grin at a woman and her panties drop. His bed will never be cold if he can overcome his personal inner demons. He barely broke a sweat fucking Constance and could have banged her into next year before needing a nap!

_Ugh. Stop depressing yourself, Comtois._

“Tordue Maria?” The bard questions her former teacher. She sips her rose wine, already knowing the answer. Leliana shows more emotion after a bottle of sherry and among ‘friends’.

“Maker, you had to bring up that harlot...” Leliana huffs, tossing up her hand. Seleem trades looks with Josephine. Somehow the ambassador is not sitting on her lover’s lap…yet. Both have been drinking all the tea, cookies, and wine the maid delivered. The sexual charged looks between them makes Constance all hot and bothered. Another cold, lonely night with her overused dildo and her long tongue again. It all reminds her of that dry year where only her dildo twixed her neathers. 

Oh, Constance missed her opportunity to entice the commander with those stories. Damnit.

Meanwhile, the Qunari and Antivan will play out all the fantasies Constance envisioned over the last few days in cold Orlais.

_Too bad you spoiled your one fling on a quick duelist tango, huh Constance?_

“What’s wrong with this one?” Seleem quizzes, her ears blushing while she studies her lady sitting leaning against her shoulder.

“She’s the worst harlequin who _somehow_ succeeds in her missions. She plays these tricks she _thinks_ are effective, but are just blind luck.” Leliana mutters before filling her teacup with more sherry.

“She’s dead.” Constance finishes her glass. Seleem already has a new wine bottle ready to fill it.

Leliana holds her hand to her chest. “Oh, how? She such a sweet soul.”

“Her luck ran out.” Constance gossips, rolling her sapphire eyes. “She was gambling and forgot she replaced an ace with a razorblade. She fanned the cards when the game began, batted them too close to her face, and the razor card flipped into her throat.”

Seleem winces and shakes her head. Her dreaded blue-white hair shudders as she rubs her neck. “Maker, why didn’t anyone help her?”

“She wasn’t at a tavern. She was betting against Chantry sisters…at an orphanage.” Constance adds. All three women gasps. “It was better her than if a child grabbing that card off the floor. She dropped everything and _somehow_ stabbed targets.”

“I always did thought her bleaching hair dye seeped into her skull.” Leliana laments before sipping from her teacup of liquor.

“It seems I forgot my invitation.”

Constance stills. Just hearing those few words in that husky baritone quivers her insides. His previous grunting and whispers caress her ear again. Thank the Maker her chair back faces the door and her hair is long right now. She needs to carry one of her daily masks around to cover her face. 

She expected to hear the unoiled door open and close. Alas, that man catches her off game. He makes her _be_ off game. Her blue eyes flash to Leliana, who glares at her like a disapproving elder sister. The stare tells her the spymaster is ashamed she slept with the man. Maker’s Void, they are adults. She knows it will never happen again _if_ Constance keeps to her usual patterns.

If only Constance’s clit got that message.

Once was just an appetizer to what that man could do. _Why_ did she kiss him? Now, she wants to lick that body everywhere against every surface and position created.  After all, she has a book of nasty fantastic positions. She observed that jaw-dropping dick as she watched him pulsing in and out of her. Oh, she would enjoy the knee rug burns later after lapping up his cum and sucking him off. His seed might as well be the rarest wine.

Seleem just glances over her shoulder. Her chair has a tall back, but her size allows her to glance at the arrival easily. “Oh, Commander! Come sit down. Leliana and Constance are rating the best and worst bards, assassins, and rogues they know.”

Constance can hear the warrior’s lungs hitch. He takes three steps forward. His armor shines the firelight back their direction. She knows where he is in the room and what he will do. Soon, she feels his amber gaze caress her cheek as she drinks her glass empty in a few hard gulps.

“Welcome back, Lady Comtois.” The commander greets. His baritone is light, but Constance just hears his rousing groans. He attempts to keep his voice even, but Leliana’s unamused glare right over his hip tells Constance to not encourage the tortured man.

The bard wears her false smile, glances up at him, and shrugs. “I return successful. Your men will have quarters and supplies on your way to and from Emprise du Lion. Your men will pass through Viscount Ingelger and Lord Marbot’s lands with little problem. The path might as well be paved in gold.”

“We never doubted, Constance.” Seleem smiles at her. The Inquisitor is oblivious to the sexual tension hanging in the air. “Why don’t you join us, Commander? It’s late, and you need a moment out from under that paperwork.” She waves to the seat opposite Constance nearby Leliana. “Vivienne left us a half bell ago for her nightly facial ritual. It would be good for you to stop and talk. Lady Comtois is a humorous and entertaining woman.”

“I know, Inquisitor.” Cullen clears his throat. “But, I’m behind on-“

“-It will keep.” The Inquisitor remarks, horns pointed his direction. “Just a little. Please? We’re close to bedtime so should not be much longer.”

Lady Comtois rises, “Actually, I am exhausted from my trip and-“  Leliana’s icy glare strikes Constance like a challenge even _suggest_ her bed in Cullen’s presence. The Songbird of Orlais rolls her eyes in response. She might have been a fool to screw that man against some wooden boxes, but she can keep him out of her rooms.

Unfortunately.

“-Please, Constance. I know things have been….restricting around here lately.” She stares at Cullen like it is all his fault. “It will be good for you to bond with _all_ the War Council.” Seleem pleads with a slight frown at Constance. 

Constance stops her ascent out of her seat. “True, Inquisitor.” Her voice is soft and caring, but her mind screams she needs a very chilly bath and soundproof walls to contain her frustrating masturbation later.

“In that case…” Cullen sighs and takes the last wingback chair by the fireplace. He groans, sitting down. His lyrium pains likely drives him from his office. He likely went to the Chantry then likely heard voices. So, he stepped into Josephine’s office on his way back. He is a creature of habit, one that any assassin would learn in just a day.

What Constance would give to oil down that delicious body and rub his soreness away and jerk him off a few times.

_Constance, think: Icy bath. Icy bath in the Frostback Mountains. Icy bath in the Frostbacks during a blizzard._

“So, who’s next? I believe Leliana.” Josephine remembers, pointing to her friend. “I wish I knew more about the bards at court, but the last year away has left me rusty.”

“You missed little.” Constance replies, leaning back in her chair. Her electric eyes focus on the Inquisitor, Josie, or the fire. They never linger on the man opposite her or his overly protective rogue friend. “With the war, the nobles have been more open about attacks. You are too good to see such moronic misbehaving.”

“I hope your former guardian is well.” Josephine continues, her brown eyes twinkling at Leliana. “Philliam the Bard’s mischievous writings used to be so common and cheerful in the _Dowager_ , but I noticed no new satires in months.”

Constance sighs, watching Seleem refill her wineglass again. “This year has not been kind. His favorite great niece passed away at the Conclave.” All four War Council members frown, their eyes remembering the hells they experienced those three long days before stabilizing the Breach. “Her name was Evelyn, a Circle mage who suffered greatly under the former system. Philliam encouraged her to come to his estate since the family considered them the black sheep of House Trevelyan. Instead, rumors states the Divine invited her to Conclave. She promised to come to Orlais once it was over.”

“I remember my brother Kaaras mentioning a noble Circle mage named Evelyn. He was to escort her to the Temple, thus why we were not together when…” Seleem takes a few deep breaths. Josephine rubs her bare arm with kind eyes. The Inquisitor regains her composure quickly smiles at Josephine. She is a quick learner. “Many people lost loved ones that day.”

Constance nods and swallows some wine. “Well, Philliam took her death deeply like it was his fault. His once light attitude dwindled until he avoids the public now. He works within his family’s House through their own civil war. Bann Trevelyan disowned his other daughter, who you know as Duchess Tricia de Ghislain, and refuses to pass his title and wealth to her. It was about this time I decided I wanted nothing involved in that chaos. I might be Philliam’s ward heir, but I never mingled with House Trevelyan much. I see why Philliam ran away so long ago. If mage inheritance laws ever changed, I know Philliam would pass his riches to his favorite grandniece. She deserved it. Meanwhile, I made my own wealth. I floated around Val Royeaux _bored_ and _restless_. That is how I discovered the Montilyet assassination contract and floated into your wonderful company.”

“And we are happy to have you, Lady Comtois.” Seleem grins happily.

“I have a rogue who I wish to hear your opinion, Constance…Someone Philliam actually informed me of…though I doubt he ever interacted with her.” Leliana begins with a slight smirk. “Tell us what you think of _Medusa_.”

Constance just watches her former mentor, while Josephine visibly shudders. “Maker, just speaking that woman’s name is taboo, Leli.” The ambassador smacks Leliana’s knee.

Cullen looks bored, while the Seleem shakes her head, confused. He sits with his gloved hands threaded together and his right leg bouncing. He is very ansty and uncomfortable. “Medusa?”

Josephine hushes him. “Do not speak her name! She has ears _everywhere_.”

“You mean the ears she cuts off, Josie?” Leliana asks with a smirk.

Cullen perks a brow, surprised. “Like a _prize_?”

“No.” Constance’s voice is flat and low. She chooses no Thedosian accent for this speech. The commander’s head whips her direction, watching her as she leans forward. Good thing she is still in her riding gear. The gear is plain leather with a burlap cape to disguise herself among the Orlesian poor and destitute. It creaks with each movement on purpose, which directs Cullen’s whiskey eyes to skim over her shapely form. There is a hunger behind those spheres. 

“ _Medusa_ is ‘an eye for an eye’ assassin. If you are her target, your death will be a spectacle. Those who find your body will search days for all the pieces. Her victims _suffer_ before their death. The populace after an ancient Tevene demonic monster who turned people to stone. Those who meet her freeze first in shock, then by a unique potion she pours over her arrow and knife tips that paralyses them. They cannot fight back, but _feel_ everything as she does her disgusting dismemberment. A rapist? She takes all your sex organs, boils them, and makes you eat them while you slowly bleed out. An embezzler or thief, she cuts off your hands and fingers one knuckle at a time, while feeding you each sovereign in your pocket until she cuts open your stomach to retrieve them and give them to your victims. If you pass out, she gives you enough rejuvenation potion to heal and wake up. She is the sickest of bards, one that fellow bards fear when lingering in the shadows. She is not leash. She does not have a soul. She cannot be a demon because that means she has a purpose. Medusa just _does_ with no mission or reasoning except to give justice where courts failed. Once she serves her voids, she disappears back into the shadows to hide until she needs to enact her punishments again.”

“Her latest victim was someone who wore a Vascel ring, right?” Leliana added as Seleem held Josephine close. The rumors and description rattle both women into an embrace. “The last two unscrupulous target have been actually. All dangerous men who preyed on the weak. No one doubts they needed to die, but how their bodies were found makes everyone who still holds the treasured ring shiver in fright.”

“A Vascel ring?” Seleem repeats with a perked brow. “Like the Black Fox’s fabled rings?”

“Y-yes…! The Foxes!” Josephine smiles and claps. “Let’s talk about the Silver Fox instead! Gossiper remarked with his first appearance, a new interest in the encrypted rings rose again. People of all races and standing started searching for the treasure. That’s likely w-why… _that murderer …_is killing those people. But, there is no need to speak of that snake-masked murderer anymore. Please?”

“The very rings, Inquisitor. It is just as Josie overheard from dignitaries. Over the last six years, the Vascel rings have been either stolen or cut from people’s hands. Six ring have been taken from owner to owner in the latest rush for the treasure.” Leliana remarks to her fellows in her chipper accent. “Three are accounted for since the Dowager, Lady Mantillon, gave Gaspard and Celene one each and kept one for herself. The tenth has been never found. It’s said it is with the Black Fox’s body wherever he died. If that is true, no one will ever find whatever they think is at the end of the rainbow. Arlathan? Riches? A bandit sanctuary? People call the treasure whatever that want it to be really.”

“Are you suggesting the Silver Fox is related to this, Josephine?” Constance questions as Seleem refills her wine glass a third time. “I thought they just wanted to help people. Is not that why the others did everything for the weak? First, in Orlais and the Red Fox in Ferelden?”

“No, just wondering _your_ theory about the masked vigilante.” Josephine clarifies, her fear disappearing in the firelight. “You must have heard everything while at court. I definitely cannot think the Silver Fox is related to the heinous crimes committed by… _that murderer_. I am curious about who and what gender they may be? Or at least your thoughts. You must know more about the masked hero than us. The masked hero of the destitute has been constant talk at court. Every visiting noble and representative talked about him one time or another.”

Her sapphire eyes mistakenly flick to Cullen. He smirks at her in the candlelight. That blasted scarred lip and what it felt like against her neck. How his stubble goosefleshed her skin. Or his talented fingers flicking her bundles of nerves. Maker, those wild eyes are undressing her right now, but he keeps his composure. Meanwhile, Constance forgets her own name.

Stop. Making. Mistakes.

Constance shrugs like she is bored. She needs attention away from her flushing face and hard nipples. Shift focus on him instead. Put him in the hot seat. “First, I want to hear the Commander’s thoughts. Rumor has it the Silver Fox was at my performance and talked to _him._ ” She drinks from her glass, but points to him with a pinky. It takes two to tango, something Leliana forgets. Those icy eyes need to level this distracting man, who is unlike any other lover Constance ever had. Their fuck was fast and primal, but that make her want _more._ However, he will be the only one begging for her again. She will not break. “Then I will say my two coppers.” 

All the women present whip their heads at Cullen, who looks shocked and eyes Constance. He pinches his nose. “I…might have…I don’t think it was….but…”

“Cullen…?” Seleem asks with an eyebrow perk.

“He or she chased off the lurkers by the parlor door during your negotiations.” His whiskey eyes scowl at Constance. “How did you know about that?”

Constance grins. “I invited the vigilante, of course. Who better to be at the Inquisition’s announcement than the vigilante who has done more than any other Orlesian in that room? I spread the rumor the great Fox would be there, which drove many fence-walkers to attend. They kept accusing each other they were the tree hopper. Alas, I thought the esteemed rogue never appeared until a note appeared in my room after my performance. The person accused me of sitting on my laurels and to decide about my dedication to the Inquisition.” She waves to where she sits. “And here I am.”

The bard levels her smile at Cullen. “So, I ask again: who do you think of this masked animal?”

The commander coughs, avoiding the spymaster’s judging stare. Leliana might turn him into an ice block at this rate. “I think it is a woman.” He points to Leliana. “Like her. She tried to act like she had a clean-shaved jaw, but her hair follicles were too small. A man her age would have bigger hairs after shaving many years.” Leliana nods in approval before blinking at Constance.

The Orlesian bard shrugs and smiles. “Why does it have to be a man or woman? Are there only two genders and sexes? Krem of the Bull’s Chargers is a perfect example of no matter how you are born, it is what you believe in your heart. So, your observation about the lack of beard says little about the person behind the mask.”

Constance crosses her legs again and begins bouncing her foot. Cullen’s honey gaze instantly flicks back. He licks his lips. Leliana actual groans and rolls her eyes. “I admire the Fox’s ideals and representation. We know it is not a dwarf because height difference, but they act like they could have been Carta-trained. An elf or human is possible, but the resources they use means they rely on other’s money or has their own. The Black Fox was a minor noble, so he funded his own crusade. Maybe it is a similar situation or keeps a share of spoils to fund the next steal. Or, have you all considered it is many people working as one individual like Red Jenny. All I know is that in a time where the world has failed everyone, it is okay to have heroes, legal or illegal.”

Constance references Seleem to her left. “Maybe it be a Qunari ice mage marked with Andraste’s Anchor…or a masked monkey in a war-torn empire so far from its glory days. I am just thankful such selfless people exists in this hellscape.” She nods to the Inquisitor, who grins happily. She finally looks relaxed and comfortable. The mantle she wears makes her slouch and wish for easier days.

“Amen.” Josephine toasts with a wide smile at her Inquisitor. She lifts her glass. “To selfless people.”

The others lift their drinks and nod. “To selfless people.”

As they drink, Leliana watches her from across the room. Her icy eyes flick to Cullen, who also eyes Constance closely. The meaning is clear. Constance does not like what it means for all those involved.

Maker, Leliana just gave her blessing and permits this dalliance to continue. What the spymaster learned in this small exchange altered her hard-stance approach. They all know it will end horribly, but Leliana looks confident she can handle whatever mess Constance creates. Evidently, her panic in finding another tart to throw his direction seem useless while Constance is in the picture. The spymaster likely sees this liaison as a means to bleed the tar from Cullen’s soul, so whatever future wife she introduces him to later will not suffer with the broken, downtrodden man. He will accept her suggestions once Constance breaks him like her other partners.

Constance huffs to herself. No woman is worth the commander then. The man can save himself. He just needs someone to stand there and point out the wounds still bleeding over the last decade. Or a hand to grip when he craves the evil from his soul. If no other woman is willing to do that, thus why Leliana’s tarts never caught his eye, the commander will better if left alone.

So, the spymaster allows this, so when Constance breaks him, the man is reformed and will be at his best…while loathing her icy existence. Leliana will finally have her revenge on Constance after the blonde beauty declined her business offer and lifestyle back in the day. Constance adopted Lord Trevelyan’s methods and rejected Leliana’s religious world. She had a damn good reason to reject whatever the Nightingale believes is in ‘best for all involved’.

Leliana also knows Constance will help Cullen, despite all the negatives to her personally. There is a guarantee in those icy blue eyes that knows this will be Constance’s greatest challenge. Somehow, she learned Constance broke her own rules. How? Likely Cullen slipped up while she was away.

So, does Constance permit it to happen and hold on to her foundations? Or does she reject this permission and watch a good man succumb to his own demons alone? Maybe someday Cullen will learn how to overcome the trauma, but Constance can give him the tools _now_. She will not do it for him. It will be his own war to fight and win.

What will it be, Bard: Selfishness and detach or assist and risk growing a soul?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOTS going on in this chapter. I'm known for drop details and hints in all my stories. ;)
> 
> Someone asked me whatever happened to my OC Evie Trevelyan in this universe. If you know my reading, many stories relate on people's choices and the outcomes. in "Fire In Your Eyes' Walking Among Demons" Kaaras Adaar tells Evie he barred his sister from coming to the Conclave. In "Danse Macabre" timeline, Seleem is permitted to go, thus how she became the Herald. However, that changes Kaaras and Evie's fates. For Evie fans, I'm so sorry. :(
> 
> However...this suggests Constance is in the FIYE timeline. ;) Maybe she will show up in Part 4. XD!


	9. *Chaconne:  Purgatory*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Everyone. FYI: from this forward, "Danse Macabre" will only post on Fridays for the foreseeable future. My health is terrible shape at the moment. With how the world burns, I know if I push myself too much, there is no way to get medical assistance. I hope you all are safe and healthy. We are in this together. :)
> 
> NSFW! NOT SAFE FOR WORK! NSFW!
> 
> FYI/Trigger: Bondage in a consensual manner
> 
> Chapter Songs: “Graditude” by chillchild & “Awaken” by Klergy  
> Example Composition: “Partitia for Violin Solo No. 2 in D Minor: V. Chaconne” by Johann Sebastian Bach
> 
> NSFW! SMUT AND PORN AHOY! NSFW!

* * *

The Chaconne: Originally from the New World, the culturally Spanish dance grew in popularity throughout European courts. The quick dance and song included provocative moves and swirling. It quickly spread throughout Europe as both a courtly royal and general populace dance. Example Composition: Johann Sebastian Bach’s “Partitia for Violin Solo No. 2 in D Minor: V. Chaconne”

* * *

Cullen vowed nearly two years ago to never live in purgatory. He remembers when he officially had _freaking_ enough. The acting knight-commander stared at his littered desk in Kirkwall’s Gallows, wondering how he ended up in such a position. He reminded himself being a Templar Order knight had been his boyhood dream. He wanted to serve and protect people. What better way to do so as a blessed templar in the Maker’s Chantry. However, that awaking moment sitting behind that desk made him see he had done the exact opposite. He hurt hundreds, possibly thousands. He was that fairytale monster he always wanted to fight.

That day acting Knight-Commander Cullen Rutherford declared he would not live in that purgatory any longer. He will not live in ignorance, but in a reality that unmasked his childhood dreams involved an Order that never existed. He searched his cluttered desk for Cassandra’s offer, rushed out of his office, and sent the seeker a raven to come see him as soon as possible. 

When Cassandra arrived, Cullen accepted her offer on one condition: he may leave the Templar Order, stop taking lyrium, and overcome the addiction. He thought it would be a deal breaker.  After all, the Right Hand of the Divine supposedly should encourage remaining in the religious institutions. Cullen knew it was a gamble. Even if Cassandra declined, Cullen was leaving the Templar Order. He would not spend another moment as the monster the Chantry and the Order created from an innocent, hopeful boy. He would just find another way to redeem all his crimes, even if the general world did not see them that way, only the mages and mage-supporters who fled the Gallows after years of abuse.

Thankful Cassandra not only agreed to Cullen’s terms, but stated she would stand by him in the battle. She recognized the blue mineral chain coursing through his body. The seeker believed if anyone could break it, it would be a man who kept a crumbling city together knowing no one will ever thank him. In that moment, Cullen found an ally and a way to be the man his childhood heart wanted to always be.

So, when Cullen recognizes the same cluttered desk and wondering how he ended up like this, he knows he found himself in another addiction purgatory. Instead of it waking from a childhood fantasy that never exist, it is dreaming of soft skin and lyrium blue eyes against his form. Sighs, cries, and grunting echo in his flushed ears. Intoxicating honeysuckle and womanly scent fills his nostrils. He cannot forget how _good_ she felt around him, her nails racking his back as she squeezed his cock in ecstasy. 

Cullen reviews how he let himself fall into this position, but remembers he made that choice and accepted her invitation. He pushed, she offered, and he went to that armory. When every part of him screamed this was a terrible idea, Cullen still walked down those stairs. He dueled her until naked and trapped her against those boxes. She even clarified if he could not accept this could never happen again, he should just walk away. Instead, Cullen pushed her and fell down into that deep blue abyss.

Has he broken lyrium addiction? Cullen knows that is a big fat _no_ , but he reached milestones almost all others before him never imagined. After Adamant, he believed he will never break free, but yet again, he found an unlikely ally in the Inquisitor. Just as Cassandra stood with him in Kirkwall, Seleem ordered him to never taste that sweet liquid again. Her order meant while he stands with the Inquisition, but the ramifications were the rest of his life. The ice mage recognized he was doing the impossible just as she was slowly piecing the world back together. They all walk trials by fire. Seleem believed Cullen could achieve his goal and supports him like a friend. Two mortal enemies just three years ago now stood shoulder-to-shoulder through Thedas’ chaotic war.

Alas, just a month later, the former templar drank that forbidden lyrium, just not from a philter. Seleem or Cassandra do not understand this lyrium is the worst for him. Now, just two nights from leaving for Emprise du Lion, Cullen begs for another drink from that Orlesian beauty.

No, he will resist. He must.

_More!_

_No! Never think of Constance Comtois again!_

The Fereldan commander slams his hands on the desk and stands. He already removed his armor because he keeps sweating while pondering over his new void. He just grabs his mantle and stomps outside.

Cullen plans to do the same as he did leaving the Order. He will tell Lady Comtois he rejects whatever ‘teaching’ she may offer, including those techniques to break free from his traumas. He will find another way that does not involve spending valuable time fantasizing about a woman who clearly just wanted him for a quickie. 

After rejecting her ladyship’s offer, the commander will tell the Inquisitor and Cassandra he will not under any conditions learn whatever hogwash for Halamshiral from that woman he identifies as lyrium. Once Cassandra learns what that bard does to him, she will support him. The seeker will recognize that if Costance affects and reminds him of the mineral that they will just find another way to navigate the ball. If Seleem does not agree, Cullen will claim he feels he cannot keep her order at this rate. Seleem will know then how difficult it has been for him the last week since that armory rendezvous. If she believes he can fight surrounded red lyrium but not resist the bard, Seleem will know how brutal Cullen’s troubles have been over the last few weeks.

This will mean relations between the Inquisition and their bardic ally will tense, but Cullen will not live and feel like he has no choice again. The Inquisition helps him overcome his regrets and ways to atone for his monstrous ways. If Leliana is right and Lady Comtois will leave after the Winter Palace, a few months of tension and awkwardness will be nothing. He will attend the damn group dance classes with that horrific pompous Orlesian dance teacher. 

Ugh, did he just admit that?!

First, to cut the last ties with Lady Comtois.

Stomping across the southwest ramparts, Cullen eyes her noble tower room. There are still candles burning through the stain glass windows. It is late, but there are people talking in hushed tones in the garden. He knows she is staying in her noble rooms tonight because she sang a private concert for some visiting ambassadors. 

Since the singer returned from southern Orlais, she has been nonstop and rarely available. She sang at the Herald’s Rest last night. The soldiers complain nothing is the same when ‘Connie Frye’ does not perform. Even the army is addicted to the bewitching bard. Most of all, Cullen struggled to stay in his tower as her voice carried into Cullen’s office until the wee morning. 

After these long days means she is likely tired. She will listen to his rejection, ask him to leave, and they can just avoid one another until he leaves for Sahrnia. No need to stay in her presence for long.

Cullen slows his steps once reaching the tower overlooking the garden. He feels his heart race as he ventures closer, like she is a sleeping cobra. He must pass her deadly nest. Lady Comtois—he refuses to think of her first name—is poison in human form. She is a bard, trained in seduction and death. She can dance if a snake charmer calls her from her basket, but that does not mean she will not bite if provoked.

The commander taps his broadsword hilt. He never removes his weapons until about to lay down in bed. Even then, he tucks his sword between the bedframe and mattress and his boot dagger under his pillow. Cullen ignores it is a consequential reaction since Kinloch Hold. No, he just knows danger always lingers around the corner. They are at war. Never be unarmed and ever ready.

Cullen lifts his hand to knock when the door opens from the inside. He believes for a moment the bard sensed or heard him. Instead, a short elven maid with a soapy bucket looks up and sees him. He jumps back as she steps outside.

“My lord?”

“I wish to speak to Lady Comtois.” The commander declares roughly. His nerves and doubts are blurring his composure. He wishes to make his peace and return to his life and not this hell he stupidly dove into dick first.

Her ladyship’s maid nods. She sets down her bucket, opens the door, and calls into the room. “Someone to see you, my lady.”

“Enter.”

The elf curtsies and waves him inside. She picks up her soapy water bucket while he enters and closes the door behind him. For a moment, he feels like the door traps him in a den of cobras instead a single woman. His amber gaze focuses on the closed door, his claustrophobia warring inside him.

Fresh cold air caress his cheek.

Cullen pivots and searches for the source. Any opening—salvation—to focus on-

-He wishes he had never came.

For the room being one of the best in Skyhold, it looks plainer than Cullen expects from Josephine. He sees in a corner someone took down various finery and shoved it into a trunk like it offended the occupant’s taste. Hopefully, Josephine has not learned about that or she would panic. There is a fireplace roaring as the mountainous winds whip over the roof. In front of the fire is a drained copper tub. His mind realizes what the maid had been doing when she opened the door.

The connections lead him both to his query and the fresh cool air’s source. His amber eyes focus, his body slightly stepping forward from the closed door just to see a little better. Oh, Maker’s breath, this will be like pulling teeth.

Sitting on the window ledge is Lady Comtois in a long silk light blue robe. Her legs stay close to her body. Her arms keep them close, while balancing her behind on the short stone sill. Her bare feet barely peek out from under the robe. She brushes her butter blonde waves, allowing the hair to slowly dry than braiding for sleep like most women. Her ladyship’s head leans against the open window’s shutter, her gaze focusing on the full rising moons. Every so often, those electric blue eyes shift from the night sky to the other item adorning the open window. 

Above the noblewoman’s head, just missing her scalp, is several metal hollow tubes randomly bounced by a blunt wooden ball. Each hit makes the different length tubes ring like the Maker himself plays a song. Cullen had heard wind chimes before. They make most from wood because they are cheaper and easier to carve. These metal chimes must have cost her ladyship a fortune.

“I-I-I- sorry to d-d-disturb you so late, Lady C-C-Const—errrr—Comtois.” Cullen stutters, instantly wishing the floor would eat him whole.

“You came to say you reject my offer.” Her voice is soft and wispy. “Leliana warned you to stay from me. You feel trapped in these preparatory arrangements and …to be around me.” Those lyrium blue eyes slowly shifted from the wind chime to him across the room. “I remind you of the drug you still crave even now. My voice, my eyes,… _me._ You said it yourself, I am an addicting demon meant to taunt you.”

Cullen squeezes his eyes shut, his voice rough. “If you knew all that, why offer what you did during the chess game?”

The beauty purses her lips, glancing around the room. She comes to some decision on what to say. “Freedom for the Void does not come from just ignoring things, Cullen.” Her ladyship shifts on the windowsill and sets her feet on the nice rug beneath her. She keeps her robe tightly closed and her damp hair over her shoulder. “There are always reminders of struggle everywhere. You do not pass near the mage tower or avoid templars during their morning philters. The temptation is too great. However, that ‘out of sight and mind’ tactic will not work forever.”

The bard gesture him. “Some intelligent people once said, ‘When you can’t run, you crawl. And when you can’t crawl’…” She points to herself. “…’you find someone to carry you.’ Asking for help and offering help is rarely painless, but you can do it.”[1]

Lady Comtois glances at the fireplace, her eyes downcast like she speaks to no one. “I knew a man once shoved aside the struggle like you do with mental pain. He rejected truths and ignored the obvious. It worked for a while…until all that he loved crashed and burned. When I met him, he told me my voids will remain until I face and bleed them out on my own designated battlefield. If I wait like he did, the battle will find him…and innocent lives will die and stain my hands and conscience forever.”

“Where is he now?”

“Dead.” Constance bluntly answers with a slow, mournful blink. “He spent the rest of his life fighting off ambushes that constantly chased him until he retreated into a box canyon and could not escape.”

“And you?” Cullen takes another step forward. “Have you mastered your own darkness?”

“You never win.” The bard speaks honestly, her angelic voice raspy and deep like the hole she fights every day. “Once it is there, it will be a constant struggle. Just as bits of lyrium will stick to your bones and slowly poison you the rest of your life, your traumas will always remain and creep into your present. Some days they will affect you more than others. That is an unlucky part of owning such troubles. Like debating suicide, once you think and consider the idea, it will always be an option. Or a pure virgin who gives herself away to only find herself alone…she can never be a virgin again. Once inside the circle, always living in that circle void.”

Constance tilts her head, her fingers twisting in her drying waves. “With help though, you can determine the battlefield and have a massive army of tools and techniques at your back when your nightmares’ small, strangling forces crest the hill.”

The Songbird lifts her hand, patting the blunt wood ball hammering against the wind chime’s tubes. “They say the Tranquil forget what happened before the mage were branded. I interacted with them for years when my mentor had us watch at a Chantry of Circle market. When I asked if they remember why they the templar branded them, they replied no. I noticed some studied specific disciplines. When I wondered why some focus on animals and others plants, they reported they vaguely remember being fond of them, but no exact reason why. These lessons taught us that our memories connect with our emotions. By the Tranquil losing their emotions and what make them _them_ , the memories faded into their mind’s dark recesses. When free of branding, mages go insane because those emotions and their connecting memories fly back and overwhelm the fragile mind. Memories also reinforce emotions. Seeing children playing tag will make you smile not just because they are children happy, but you remember such glee when you last played at their age.”

Constance pushes herself off the windowsill. She hugs herself and wonders around the room. “However, by pretending you have control of those memories or pushing them deep inside, the emotions might feel distant, but they are not. The brain finds ways. It might be achy joints from restless sleep. Tapping foot while listening to a conversation.” She reached and shut the window with a slam. Cullen grabs his sword hilt, his body already into position to draw and attack. “Or needing an open window to do not feel trapped in a room.”

“You knew I would come.” Cullen grumbles under his breath.

“You stayed away longer than I thought you would.” The bard admits, tilting her head. “Your resilience is legendary, but I still had my doubts. Before you say it, I did not sleep with you as some silly game, Cullen. I laid with you because I…” She purses her lips. “…wanted you too. I still do.” She turns away like to say it was like she flung her heart into the fire. “But I would be preaching to the chorus if I did not admit it. To not address the elephant in the room lets it shit all over the floor until you are swimming in dung.” Constance glances over her shoulder. “You rattle what has been firm for decades.”

“Is it so difficult to _care,_ Constance?” Cullen questions with a perked brow.

“In my world, it is a death sentence. Not just for me, but those I cared about, just as that running man taught me long ago.” She spats, pivoting on her foot. She outstretches one hand to her side. “It only takes a single moment to teach you that. Varric admits Leliana is a better spymaster because he cares too much for his little gossipers. He looks after their families and friends, so he gets consumed in their lives.”

The bard extends her other hand. “On the opposite end, Leliana cares only for the mission and results. The few people she gave my heart to are not in her life now. Her wife is off searching for a cure that does not exist, and the divine is dead. The one rule that kept her foundations firm crumbled at the Conclave. Her Andrastian faith lays shattered and now she acts with not reprieve. If it wasn’t for Inquisitor Adaar keeping her leashed, this world would bathe in blood.”

“What is your rule then, Constance?” Cullen asks with silted eyes flicking between the balancing arms like scales. He is both curious and suspicious. “What keeps you from being a Varric and a Leliana?”

“Life is easier when it is just you.” The bard replies in a stoic tone. “People change, but you can control how or why you will. It is I who suffers if I make a mistake or serve the wrong person. To not be selfish, I give my blade and life to who needs protection. I keep them at arm’s length. Their mission matters. I leave before I become attached.”

“Then what am I in all that? I’m part of the Inquisition, thus a part of the mission.” Cullen is just a few steps from her now. “Was our one coupling keeping at arm’s length or an unadvised connection?”

“Thus the rattle.” Her angelic voice sounds like the wind now. “I see a kindred soul who reminds me of what I once was. You are a heart who beats tars, but still is golden and perseveres. You could let the surgeon bleed you dry, but the tar will just return. You may let the tar replace your blood, but your golden heart remains pure.” 

Constance steps towards the Fereldan man, hesitant and cautious. She frowns, a true expression. “You must remove the sources or at least mitigate it to slow the tar. I can show you the door to save yourself, yet you shake my rules to keep away. Do I dismiss you tonight and let that void inside ambush you and kill you later? Or do I challenge my own tenets to save you, but possibly get you killed if someone thinks I care more than a mission?”

Things changed and flipped on their heads. The commander does not want to break from this woman. They both struggle and fight their rational minds. He does not live in this purgatory alone, but with Constance. Even the blankest woman finds no rest here.

Cullen read Constance wrong. It was never just a quickie in a hidden room, but a hope that one time will bleed ill-advised emotions. Instead, their sex just confirmed this is solid and mutual.

_What do you want to do, Rutherford?_

Cullen already knows that answer. He smiles and reaches out his hand. “It is a good thing I know how to defend myself.”

“Your actions speak for the Inquisition, Commander.” She reminds him. Her rational mind still dances around the idea.

“Then treat it as a mission. Once complete, no matter if you have shown me all your tools, we walk away. You challenge your tenets, while I finally fight on even ground against something haunting me for over ten years.”

Constance studies him closely, her arms releasing their tight hold on the silk robes. Cullen sees a bit of flesh peeking around her legs and neck. Her breasts slip under the smooth fabric from her heavy breathing. Her nipples rise and peak. Her urges fight her logical mind. “You do not let go easily, Cullen. Everything you do is deep, loyal to the bone.”

“Then consider breaking away my final exam.” Cullen counters with a smirk. “How better to gauge that I learned anything than to use such tools to save myself from _you_.”

Maker, Cullen hopes he can survive that.

The blonde beauty smiles, but it is not her painted false expression nor that wicked one from their duel. No, this is an expression of her actual being. “Business and pleasure, Commander?”

Cullen glances around the room. “This does not look like the Blooming Rose.” He smugly smirks and winks.

“No, it will not be. This point onwards _I_ come to _you.”_ When he goes to object, she wags her finger. “I know five different ways to sneak in and out of your tower with no one seeing. You are a druffalo through a market, Heathen. I do not think you know the word _silent_.”

“Thought about sneaking in, Constance, or you plan to kill me?” Cullen quips back.

“You give me no reason to kill you…yet.” She takes the last steps, both people meeting in front of the fireplace. “My first irrational personal task arriving here was to learn where you stayed and how to fuck you _blind_. Once I glanced around the lower courtyard and surmised which was your tower, it has been an agonizing endurance test because you Heathen have soaked my loins since the moment I ever saw you.”

“Including now?” Cullen tugs her against his body, his hand clenching her hip. Her bare right leg hooks around his leg, opening her robe up to her groin. 

“I have to be wearing smalls to do that.” Cullen rears back as she shrugs her shoulders. Her loose robe flows over her shoulder and down her arm. Her right breasts frees from the silk. Constance leans forward. Her breath tickles his blushing ear. “This moment forward, you remove all armor by the tenth bell. It is like you read my mind tonight.”

“And if I break these rules?”

Constance’s long tongue follows the shell of his ear. He shudders as his erection rubs against her loose robe. “Between your lessons and _other_ activities, you will get to define _how_ I appear every night and how our _personal_ times goes. If you break these ground rules, nothing. I know you dislike breaking rules, Commander. You were the perfect academy student.”

Cullen chuckles, his fingers grazing her smooth hairless thigh hanging over his hip. “And tonight?”

“We wipe the slate clean of any ambiguity.” Constance hops.

Cullen easily catches her in his arms, his hands massaging her bare behind. Her legs wrap around his waist as she lightly kisses his scarred lips. “One last question.”

“I like questions…within reason.” She purrs as Cullen carries her towards the large king-style bed across from the fireplace. She flips his mantle from his neck to lick around his jaw and across his adam’s apple. Cullen growls and nibbles her neck and exposed shoulder.

“Is it true you do not kiss lovers…?”

Constance stills, her lyrium blue eyes shift and stare into Cullen’s dilated pupils. “Yes, but I want to taste you all over, including that delicious scarred mouth. You rattle my pillars. You make me test all my concrete rules. If you are using your faith to keep this per our agreement, I can push my own rules, strengthen the marble pillars that keep me alive. It is okay to bend such rules if it to help grow strong. A tree will fall over if the wind never blows and tests it trunk fibers.”

Cullen nods, his nose running along her jaw. “Fair enough. You also risk them breaking, _Bard._ ”

Constance exhales and squeezes her lyrium blue eyes shut. “You are worth the risk, Cullen. I hate that, but you are a good man worth rescuing from yourself.”

The commander lays her down, flipping open her sky-blue robe. “Maker’s breath…” 

In the armory, the torches and throwing daggers gave him little time to appreciate the form lying beneath him now. Here on a bed with expensive sheets, Cullen can truly see the perfection Constance Comtois flaunts but rarely allows others to see. Her supple body has just enough fat to give her enticing behind, hips, and breasts shape, while her muscles define, firm, and ripple with each calculated movement. She keeps her hands on his thighs as he admires her inch by glorious inch. Her perfectly sized breasts gravitate to either size of her body, her sternum exposed. Her pink nipples harden in the cool air, while her rosy fair skin goosefleshes every time she trembles. She visibly shows her rising and falling breaths so her ribs and hips move and accent her form.

“You’re…perfection…” Cullen whispers, his eyes tracing her unbelievable form. 

Cullen unties and flips open his mantle coat, his hands itching to touch this deathly goddess again. As he pulls his shirt over his head, Constance leans forward. Her fingers rake up his thighs and begin to undoing his sword belt. Her eyes follow his cut abdomen and flexing pectoral muscles, hungry and begging. Once he tosses his offensive shirt behind him, he hears his broadsword clack against the rug. She goes from his pant ties, but he stops her. He grasps her hands in his larger palms, slowing inching them above her head.

“I made some bold claims last time, but did little to show my talents.” Cullen declares, that baritone husky and direct. Her electric blue eyes widen just a moment. She remembers well, licking her red lips. “I won’t make that mistake again. I have a feeling you enjoy leading such tumbles. I can see it in your eyes.” Cullen smirks wickedly. “I _might_ allow that.” Constance grits her teeth, her defiant side disliking not having control too.

“Already an expert on bards, Monsieur?” She quips with a playful lilt despite her eyes aflame.

“I did not forget your lecture about opals and dragonflies. I would be a poor student if I did.” Cullen chuckles back. He grasps the robe belt out from under her and binds her wrists together. Nothing tight, but enough to know she will not break free without help. Cullen likely knows she can anyway because _bard._ He avoids tying the loose ends to the bedpost. That will be another night. “I also know not to trust these hands. For me to use both of mine, I need to tie these away…with your permission.”

“Nugs.”

Cullen squints and stares at her, dumbfounded.

“To stop whatever. My safe word.” Her wicked smiles grows as Cullen understands and nods.

“Genitivi.”

Constance giggles with her hands bound above her. Her finger trace the knots, challenging his tying skills. “And here I thought you would have issues saying others’ names in bed.”

Cullen’s right hand slides down her body. His finger follows her ear, along her jaw, down her neck, and encircles her left breast. Everywhere he touches, Constance trembles beneath him. He licks his lips and kisses her nipple enough to shift its color. He huffs against it; gooseflesh ripples around the mammary. The bard whines and arches her back. Cullen flicks the sensitive nipple before tracing down her stomach, around her belly button, to finally her groin. 

Cullen’s knowledge about women’s body kicks in. He finds her hooded pearl in one pass, his fingertip just grazing her sex. Constance takes a huge intake of air. “First, don’t assume to know me, _Bard_ , and second, I prefer women.” His index finger and thumb separated her southern lips and rubbed against her hard pearl torturously slow. Cullen can smell her while kneeling over this goddess. He salivates. He wants to taste. His mind conjured multiple tastes and scents over the last weeks, but nothing compares what is within his grasp now. 

He glances down at her groin, surprised by the lack of something usually present. “No hair…?” His head lacked oxygen last coupling to notice.

“Never seen a clean-shaven womanhood before…?”

“My previous bedfellows did not have snobbish expensive taste like you, Lady Comtois. Such hygienic trends are quite expensive.” His other hands pets her thighs. “No hair there too.”

Constance leans forward to press her breasts against his scarred chest. The supple fat squishes against his hard muscles each breath. The sight is heavenly, while the feelings fights Cullen’s restraints. “And painful if you do it wrong. I practiced diligently to avoid any irritation…. _everywhere._ I always keep a blank canvas for my lovers to explore without licking coarse hairs. I want all attention on _me._ ” It is like Constance could read his mind. 

Her tongue licks his nipple. “Also, to respond to your previous point, you do not know yourself until you sleep with every gender.” She winks.

Cullen pens her down on the bed, his hand working her clit. He needs her slick and dripping so he can have that his glass of rare nectar. To surprise her, he dips a finger inside. Her nectar slickens that tight entrance haunting for over a week now. Cullen shifts himself and pulls Constance to the foot of the bed. She just lets him bend and adjust her legs like a doll. Her wanting and willing eyes follow his every move.

Cullen maneuvers the Songbird until she is in a full split on the bed edge. Her glistening groin quivers in the firelight, waiting and begging for his attention. The panting man steps back and admires the sight. Just seeing her tightly her lips and entrance nearly shatters his control. She is a deadly slut that just for _him,_ chose _him._

Cullen one lucky bastard. 

The aroused ex-templar commits it to memory. He has never had such a willing, but strong lover. Unprompted, Constance lowers her bound hand and plays with her breasts. Her sapphire orbs call to him. A singer finger curls and calls him back, knowing his restraint sits on a knife edge.

Cullen kneels and crawls back to the foot of the bed. Instantly, his nose smells that salty sweetness. She tenses her pelvic muscles so a bit of her juices leaks out. Cullen grips her inner thighs, his thumbs massaging the muscle tissue, knowing nerves lead right up to her clitoris. She groans. More nectar spills from that desire haven.

Cullen licks lightly up one thigh, stopping at the hip connection. He shifts to the other side, hearing her wanton whine. He does the same, mirroring each movement. He hovers right over her entrance. His hot breaths ignite her nerves. More whimpering and arching back. He waits for her to break. A moment passes and nothing. So, the devious man flicks her pearl.

Constance cries out, her bound hands reaching for him. Cullen leans back. “You want something, your ladyship?”

“ _Lick, suck, fuck, you bloody Heathen!_ ” Constance shouts and grunts, her behind wiggling against the sheets. 

“You didn’t say please…” Cullen teases with a cackle.

The bard leans her head up and glares at the taunting man. “I will stab you in the eye, Cullen.”

“Then you have no one to lick you clean, _Bard.”_ His lover just grumbles and looks at the window.

“…please…”

“I can’t hear you.”

“ _Please, you fucking Barbar- “  _Constance cries out as Cullen finally licks from back to front her entire groin. Her body shifts and legs widen as Cullen takes another long, slow lick. His fingers widen her southern lips. His next pass gets more of her vaginal entrance and lingers around her bundle of nerves.

“Maker’s breath…” Cullen groans, smacking his swollen lips. His tongue tingles, dying for more. She is like honeysuckle nectar. He is a young man again around his lake, breaking off the honeysuckle blooms and sucking out the sugars. He wonders if that is why he smells it from her all the time. Is she already slick and ready every minute? Maker, he will never be able to concentrate on anything else but her fantastic cunt every time they see one another.

Another long lick, but this one swirls around her entrance before flipping her pearl. Constance claws the pillows above her. She sounds like a slutty whore, but her wanton whimpers and begging are sing-songy. She sings with each cry. He never had a singing partner before.

Cullen might never sing again, but he loves the tune he coaches from her.

One finger slips inside her, following the entrance lip just inside. Constance mewls and wiggles. Cullen’s only hand keeps her still. His next lick focuses on her clit. He sucks the hooded pearl and the surrounding tissue into his mouth. He thrusts his finger hard inside her canal. The song hollering through the room is majestic. He cannot get enough of the tones and notes. He keeps his suckling and licking. He places another inside. She feels so tight around his fingers. She drips like a slut, _his personal lover_. She chose him. Why? Cullen does not care because he feasts on this honeysuckle _now!_

Constance’s crash is a song of praise, his name, and pelvic thrusts. In the armory, she bit his shoulder to silent her cries, but with him licking and finger fucking her, she has nothing to chomp. The wall echoes the euphoric tune. He sucks and drinks from this flower, extending that heavenly release.

Cullen wants her to never forget this. Every day after this, he wants Constance to only think about what he can do for her. It was the same for the Rose’s whore or his passing lovers while traveling. Now, he only wants her for how long this dalliance continues.

Cullen’s ears ring as she slowly comes down. He stands up, knees achy from the hard floor. Constance bolts forward and pulls out his hand from her cunt. Like a greedy bitch, she sucks each digit, her breaths heavy and dark blue eyes locked on him. He growls, his cock can easily replacing his fingers.

Cullen must have her again. Constance must come begging to _him_ next. Cullen pounces and kneels over her, engorging those red swollen lips. Her honeysuckle nectar lingers on his lips, chin, and tongue. She lapses it up like she too like she is addicted to herself. Constance uses her tied hand to encircle his neck to hold him closer. He falls on top of her, both their roaming tongues and lips never stop. She mewls into his mouth.

“We have two months to explore and prove you are not bluffing, Commander.” Constance admits, while rolling her hips against his twitching hands. Cullen’s hand grasps her right breast, transferring her remaining nectar and saliva to the nipple and skin. He lowers himself from her mouth, trailing kisses from her lips, jaw, neck, shoulder, and finally her nipple. She huffs and trembles under him as the stubble texture against the flawless skin. “While I pride myself in my patience, tonight I need to see and feel that perfect cock fucking me into the mattress! You had you taste and made your point, but _fuck me, Heathen!_ ”

Cullen chuckled around her nipple in his mouth. He ignores her demand, his amber eyes challenging her to ruin his fun. Her ankle loosens his pants at the hip, showing her flexibility and multiple talents.

“True, but the last time I was too fast, you made it clear it will be once.” Cullen reminds her while his face presses between her breasts. “I will be alone in the blizzard cold for a few weeks, thus cutting into your new _lessons_. Give me something to keep me warm at night.” He kisses the skin as she grunts beneath him.

“And I broke my glass dildo trying to bring myself to completion in the week you kept me waiting, ex-Templar.” Constance hisses through her teeth. “My fingers and tongue do not complete what you just did. That is why I am so willing for fucking _anything_ and _everything_ right now!” She arches her back and rubs her perfect form across his whole body. “Put it anywhere, but as long as it is in me!”

Cullen howls with laughter, while his own control to have this woman again pushes his playfulness and worship away. He finally feels tired after weeks plagued with her haunting his thoughts. “One condition: I get to stay tonight.”

Constance eyes him and smiles. “Thus why Lizzy will be here before dawn to wake you. Your hand calluses are extra tough tonight, and your men look like you raked them over lava.”

“Good thing red templars will be in my path in the Emprise.” Cullen looms over her. “You will be in Skyhold when we return?” He pouts, chest tightening about him he will be away from her.

“In your office waiting patiently.” She promises with an excited smile. “Now, enough gushing how much we have been lusting for each other like teens at an introduction ball and to a repeat coupling performance now on a comfortable bed?”

Cullen wiggles away from her ladyship to untie his boots and throw off his pants. Constance does not stop her kissing, nipping and massaging his back muscles while he disrobes. Even with her hands bound, she kneads the flesh easily. “I will work through these tight muscles soon. You are not stretching enough while sitting for long periods. The scar tissue toughens the longer the surrounding muscle is not used.”

The commander glances over his shoulder at the woman following the planes of his sculpted body with her fingertips and lips. “How do you know with no flaw on you?”

“I have to be flawless, Heathen.” She hugs his neck. Her robe belt still firm and rubbing her red wrists. Her robe falls to her elbows. With her hands bound, there is no way to remove the silky garment. “Who hires a bard who has scars showing she is not perfect at her job or in bed? I hide them and pay for the best potions, but even then the scar tissue remains below the surface.”

“It seems the dragonfly does not escape every encounter unscathed.”

“Even if I never have a scratch, it does not mean it is not in here.” She taps her temple. “Besides, Leliana was extra pissed on how I marked you the first time.”

“She told me to stay away.”

Constance leaned back on the bed, arms above her, waiting for his passions again. His black eyes roamed over her form as his naked body joins her. “And now?” She questions as she feels his shaft graze her slick folds.

“I will take my chances.” Cullen mumbles before kissing Constance long and hard. He hitches his hips, sheaving himself deep into her hard and fast. Both lovers take a long intake of air, eyes locked while savoring the moment. He remains inside her as her body accommodates his size and girth. She only winces once, but her hips roll around him within a few seconds.

“Your penis is a Maker-sent _gift_ , Heathen…” She whimpers as Cullen slowly withdraws and meets her hitching hips. “I want to copy it for my next toy.”

“If I allow that, you will deny me again.” Cullen counters as he hits inside her hard when she does not expect it. She cries out, gripping the pillows above to give her nails something to knead.

“No, just to keep me tided over a while.”

The commander speeds up, his need to feel her quiver around him before he finds release already spurring him on. “And I have nothing? Shouldn’t it be equal frustration?”

Constance hollers at the next connection, her hips meeting him in the quickening pace. “I assure you, Sir, nothing pleases me with you like this. To be your whore would be a gift.”

“Aren’t you now?” He jokes with a perked brow. His thrusts and breast massages are hard and primal.

“That makes you a man whore too, Commander-“  Constance huffs and pants as he grazes her inner nerves. Her tied hands search for anything to grab. Her mouth reaches of his to kiss and bite.

“So, business and pleasure is true then.” Cullen grunts as he leans back and begins his fury. He pumps into her repeatedly, watching as her breasts bounce with each skin slap. Constance claws and whimpers below him as she meets him hip to hip, pressing for more frictions. He can see she wants to play along, but this for him to secure she comes back willingly from this point onward.

Cullen is out of purgatory, but she may stop these opportunities again after tonight.

No, seeing her so willing and releasing her control illustrates her commitment to this liaison to help save him from himself. Throughout this exchange, they both find release with no strings attached. Constance confirms this as she crashes around him, screaming and panting before biting her bindings because she wants to claw and bite. Her whole body flushes beneath him. 

The Fereldan warrior has never been with a woman so willingly, while not shunned by society. The Rose and Pearl whores and even bar wenches received many insults because of what they did with their own bodies. Constance can sleep with many and suffer little effects. Cullen need not feel shame for taking such a beauty to bed or worry for her safety. 

Cullen follows her, feeling her quaking spasms around his thick member. It is his turn to bite her shoulder and suckle the silky flesh taunting him since he felt it the first time. He spurts deep within her, forgetting his own name for a moment before moving his mouth to her frantic kissing. She encircles his neck, dipping her dancing tongue in as his orgasm falls away.

Cullen already wants more of this intoxicating woman, but exhaustion from a week in limbo drags him towards sleep. She does not fair much better, her own activities wearing on her. They both just hold one another on top of the blankets, him still deep inside her cunt. Yet, Constance kisses his scarred lips and caresses his face. 

Somehow during their orgasms, the blonde bard frees herself from his bindings. It should not surprise him she knows a sheep shark knot and free herself. Her soft, nibble finger comb his tossed hair from his brow. Her dark blue eyes call for him to sleep, while her face returns to that stoic mask, although flushed from their intense passions. Cullen wishes to call her on it, but he slowly drifts to the Fade. He feels safe in these murderous arms. For once, he does not think he forgot to place his dagger under his pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] From a very iconic show, as have been the previous easter eggs in other chapters. Some of you have caught them. Which show, hmmm? Can you find all the references?
> 
> Well, that was definitely a reunion. So what do you all think about this "business and pleasure" agreement? Can they just fuck their brains out or will Constance actually learn to *gasp* feel?! Yes, many of you knew they could not stay away. I did put in the tags this is a Porn-with-Plot story. Expect it at least every other chapter now. LOL! If you have some smutty action between these two, please suggest it in the comments. I want to challenge my smut writing and these two horny people make it easy.
> 
> Stay home, safe, healthy, and happy everyone! HEART!


	10. *Piva:  Serenade*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW! NOT SAFE FOR WORK!
> 
> Chapter Song: "Mit Dem Wind" by Faun and "Bonny Black Hare" by Jason Steel  
> Example Composition: "Piva" by Joan Ambrosio Dalza  
> If you are enjoying these chapter songs and compositions, make sure to go to "Danse Macabre's" [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/12b3SD7p34f5XEix43C2hH?si=kisz8McOTJCfMQE1IeLI5Q) and [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLw4onCkm8zQYchaAk_kjZIfmI7xVeWXtu) and follow for each new update!
> 
> What to get new updates about "Danse Macabre"? Come and visit my [Tumblr](https://thejeeperswife.tumblr.com/) and view all the fashion and ideas for the story! XD!
> 
> NOT SAFE FOR WORK! NSFW!

* * *

The Piva: An Italian Renaissance dance that likely began in the peasant class before growing in popularity in other social stations. Dance masters considered it the fastest version of _basse dance._ Example Composition: Joan Amrosio Dalza’s “Piva”

* * *

“Sera, Where. Is. My. Coat?” Cullen’s baritone sounds more like a feral guttural bark than a person.

The sneaky Red Jenny lifts her head after dropping some coins into the Wicked Grace betting pile. “Eh, Commander Tightpants?”

Cullen’s scarred lip twitches, annoyed he has to repeat himself again. It is bad enough he has wasted several bells searching for the damn thing. He comes to the tavern the night before leaving to hunt down the wicked elf. His soldiers glance his direction, grimacing he is disturbing their last night of peace before weeks in the cold, battling red templars. He wishes to leave, but as usual, Sera makes everything difficult.

“Where is my fur mantle!?” He growls again. His hand lay on his hips. He needs to feel bigger despite his armor. Dressed like this, he feels like he is in the Hanged Man in his knight-captain armor. 

The scrappy elf just shrugs. “I don’t know, Mister Cranky!”

“Hopefully, someone tossed it into the canyon…” Dorian mutters under his breath and adds his own betting coins.

“Unlikely…” The commander grumbles, staring Sera down. 

Cullen ignores the slight possibility he left the coat in Lady Comtois’ room the night before. When her maid, Lizzy, woke him this morning, Constance left. Briefly, he wondered if she lied again about their new ‘business venture.’ The maid replied, _“She’s in her tavern rooms. She’ll be her alternate ego today.”_ Cullen sighed in relief before gathering his clothes and leaving during guard changes. Lizzy kept turned away, but she giggled once Cullen fled.

Suddenly, cheers ring through the pub as a bobbed haircut blonde bounces out of a side room on the second floor, hops over the banister, and lands by the fireplace. Soldiers bang the pewter mugs against tables. They chant ‘Sing!’ like maniacs. Cullen turns his head from the corner table to see beautiful sapphire eyes fluttering, scanning the dance floor. She bows like a Fereldan before someone tosses her a lute.

Connie Frye breaks out in an Anders’ joyful song. Very few in the tavern understand what she is saying, but the rhyme is enough to make the place hop and clap. For a minute, Cullen forgets why he is there. He turns and watches the incognito ladyship dance and skip over chairs and spin on tables.

“‘Connie Frye’ definitely put that Orlesian dance teacher in his place today, huh Cullen?” Iron Bull remarks behind the commander. Cullen sticks around a little long. He leans against a support beam and enjoys the tune. The Qunari’s one eye watches Cullen, slightly smirking.

“To see that man crumble into a crying mess while a so-called tavern gleeman out-stepped him during the Piva...” Dorian comments before kissing his fingers. “Perfection. You would think if Josephine invited the musician to that folk dance practice, she knew what she was doing. Alas, that demanding buffoon found it insulting.” The mage nudges Cullen’s arm, waking him from his daydream, remembering what those bouncy breasts felt the night before. “It was good to have you join us, Commander.”

Cullen coughs and rubs his neck. From Iron Bull’s sideline glances, he knows exactly why he blushes. “Evidently, there are only so many ball dances that can do in private.”

Varric lifts his head from his betting book and smirks. “Oh, I bet you and that bard are discovering all _new_ dances in those private sessions…” He wiggles his puffy brows.

Sera wrinkles her nose, before her eyes flick to the whimsical singer now sitting on a bar stool for the next verse. “I can’t believe that trickster is actually a noble.” The elf crosses her legs in her chair. “One of the good ones at least. Like Quizzy. Not too high on her perch to forget the lils’.”

“That’s not common knowledge, Buttercup.” Varric warns before pulling the Death card. Everyone shows their hands. “Good thing the crowd drowns you out right now.”

“She hides those secrets well.” Blackwall finally speaks up after folding his awful hand. “She’s new blood in the aristocracy. She was one of your little guys, Sera.”

“Exactly!” Sera shouts as its clear Iron Bull won the pot. “All them cocks should be a little person for a year. Get them seein’ the world from below!”

“I think our new bard has been on the bottom longer than she admits.”

Cullen’s ears perk, while his amber eyes watch every move and strum his new lover does around the room. She is constantly aware of her surroundings. She never lets a hand touch her wrong, dodging wandering fingers like she is fighting instead of entertaining allies. Knowing its ridiculousness, Cullen cannot help be overly possessive of the beauty. Her tight leather pants, corset, and plunging tunic neckline taunts the drunks around the pub. It is just enough to entice their imaginations like she had done to Cullen. However, he knows he is the only one to see that perfect body every night. Why she chose his dragonfly pond, only the Maker knows, but he will not complain.

Cullen slyly adjusts his hardening shaft in his pants. That is why he needs his mantle. Everyone can see his stiffy every time someone whispers her name or she passes nearby. A waft of honeysuckle always triggers his brain to think of her sweet nectar tingling his tongue.

“Oh, Tiny?” Varric perks up, excitement in his Kirkwall accent. “You figure out anything about the grand Songbird?”

“She knows things that only someone who _lived_ that life would understand.” Iron Bull amends, his eye flicking between the singer, his drink, and the dealt cards. “Maybe it’s her training. Ben-Hassrath do that, but it’s how she comments on living in barracks. I think she is an orphan _picked_ for this life.”

“Rags to Riches tale?” Dorian suggests, tipping his wineglass at his lover.

“More picked and sculpted to be what everyone desires.” Iron Bull corrects, studying Cullen’s pensive stare. “What better way to create the perfect woman than to snatch an orphan and mold her into one.”

“I’ve heard such activities from Orlesian friends.” Varric remarks, flipping around his cards. He is likely cheating. Iron Bull will sock him soon. “They take the kids in trade for donations and Chantry support. The Chantry no longer has a crowded orphanage, while noble looks like a saint taking in a street urchin. They get a few that way, put them through intense studies, slowly weeding out the kids not cutting it, and out comes bards that are so loyal to the noble they don’t know any better.”

“It sounds like the Orlesian version of Antivan Crows.” Dorian compares, twisting his moustache between an index finger and thumb.

“Not all make it, of course. The weak die during training, so the noble doesn’t have to feed and clothe them anymore.” Varric finishes as a mournful tension falls over the table, opposite to the cheer and joy Constance strums around the tavern.

“Rotten bastards…” Blackwalls grumbles from under his rugged beard. “Children used like tools in their stupid games.”

“Aye, Beardy.” Sera agrees, slapping down her cards. “They pick the elves for the dirty, dangerous stuff, while keep the beauties on show. Nothing but dogs, all of ‘em.”

Cullen cannot help by stare at Constance now. She wears the glee and excitement like all her other masks. She states she fights her own darkness, but she covers it so well no one would think ailments plague her. If she was such a child, no wonder she fights the ugliness. She knew no love and care as a child in this bard machine, _if_ that was her origins. She may tell him. She has indirectly through her story about the man’s battlefield and watching the tranquil. Her early life explains why she detaches from others. It is not just to protect them from her activities, but because she likely does not know how.

Was this Lord Philliam Trevelyan, her guardian, who snatched her from an orphanage and molded her into the perfect assassin? Is that why he sponsored her studies at the University of Orlais? How did she break from other bards to be a freelance individual than being a blind, grateful killer for him?

Cullen sees the potential parallels between Constance and him now.

With one last chord, the singer finishes her performance. She hands her lute off to someone, while Cabot hands her an ale. All the while, her electric eyes focus on his leaning perch in the tavern corner. She speaks to fans as her swaying steps meander towards him. Over the noise and laughter, the commander still hears her chiming boots against the wooden floor.

“Well, I don’t think we officially met.” The bard sings before bowing. “People call me the Whimsical Connie Frye. You must be the famous Commander Cullen Rutherford. During the folk dance practice, I had little time to meet your acquaintance. That Lamar de Poop wished to have a dance-off that he was not ready for.”

Sera snickers into her beer mug. All of them know who this woman actually is, but not the other patrons in the bar. It is a show to keep the façade going.

“You’ve improved morale greatly, Miss Frye.” Cullen compliments with a smirk. Connie is more expressive than Constance, so she can smile and blush freely.

“Yet, this is the first time you have graced us with your presence.” Connie notes with an inquisitive lilt. “I believed you were just a figment of these loons’ imaginations.” She waves to his armor. “You come in armor like we are over-runned, while there is no drink in your hand. This is a relaxing place. You know how to _relax_ , fellow Fereldan?”

Dorian chuckles behind Cullen, causing the whole table to erupt in teasing at the commander’s expense. Cullen ignores it. “I am only here to retrieve something that is mine but taken.” His amber eyes flick back to Sera. 

The elf sticks out her tongue. “And I did not snag your dead rat, Cully-Wally! You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Oh, he already has a favorite tree right now.” Iron Bull retorts, taking a drink of his swill. “He’s just biding his time before he climbs her again.”

Cullen rubs his neck. He misses his mantle to hide his flushed face. Connie tilts her head. Her bobbed blonde hair falls to the side and cups her gentle jaw. “And what have you lost, dear man? Your marbles?”

Sera rolls out of her chair at the quip. Blackwall gives a thumb up. Varric writes faster than the quill in his hand.

“No, Miss. My commander’s mantle that denotes my position. It was a gift from my fellow templars when I retired from the Order.”

“Likely a gag gift that Rylen and Lysette laugh at every time you wear that bloody thing.” Dorian guesses, nudging the laughing elf that it is her turn to bet. “It is a fashion nightmare. That Lady Comtois and I spoke for bells about that dreadful thing.”

“You know the new bard in Skyhold, Connie?” Varric questions with a smirk.

“She sounds too _Orlesian,_ boring, and snobbish.” Connie remarks, nudging Cullen’s arm. “Why would I want to be in the company of masked peacocks when the real fun is right here?”

Blackwall’s blaring laugh rings in the corner. “You too bad you can’t say that to her face.”

Connie leans forward and covers her mouth with her hand. “That’s what mirrors are for.” Even Cullen giggles.

The mistral steps toward Cullen, her hip lightly bumping his hand resting on his broadsword. “As for your muskrat cloak, I believe if you are patient, it might reappear when you need it most.” She winks. Cullen grits his teeth, but she shushes him with her finger against his scarred lips. “Tonight is for merriment before the tides of war and pain flood these people’s world.” She snaps her fingers. “A song just popped to mind. A new tune for Maryden and me to sing. Nice to meet you, Commander.”

Connie waltzes away, humming to herself. She finishes her ale and retrieves her lute. “Ladies and Gentlemen! A new ballad has popped to mind. We have a tale about our Nightingale, but what of the grand Lion of Ferelden? Will you help me pick a tune?”

Cullen quickly runs for the exit, only hearing the beginning cords and the words, _Oh cry, grand Lion, over the mountains…_

* * *

Cullen hears the eleventh bell ring outside, followed by the lightest thumping noises above his head. He usually stops what he does when hearing the bells, knowing exactly what is going on around the fortress. By this time, the night guard shift is in position and all servants and non-duty soldiers are in their rooms and barracks.

So, the thumping above the commander’s head piques his interest. He slowly rises from his desk, his hand on his sword hilt. He steps around the desk, while his whiskey eyes check the rampart doors. All are bolted. His attention wonders if he should redress in his armor, but his mind reminds him of Constance’s request the night before. With one last look, Cullen glances out a side window. No, it is not snowing, so the thumps are not falling snow from the roof.

His footsteps are precise as he reaches the ladder. He knows which rungs squeak or groan. He moves his feet around the weak points while he climbs.

Those sounds could not be the sampling by his bed or a bird. He knows when one of Leliana’s ravens settle in his loft uninvited or how the sampling’s branches scratch the stone walls during strong winds. The commander listens to his tower, learning quickly its quirks during long nights working or afraid to fall asleep.

A single candle sits lit in the middle of the loft floor when Cullen’s head pokes up. Barely illuminated in the light is a figure sitting on the end of his bed. The light flickers as he crawls up, highlighting a bare foot and leg hanging over the bed. A bit of red fabric cups the knee, while smooth pale flesh tightens when the wind blows through the roof.

Cullen reaches the top and stands by the loft entrance, his eyes adjusting to the low light. The person sitting on the bed looks large, but when the breeze whips again, he realizes it is actually his mantle covering their form. The fur makes their shoulders look bigger, while the coat is many sizes too big for their smaller frame.

A lute sits on the person’s lap. Its strings vibrate with each purposeful note pluck. She hums a tune, muttering words under her breath. Her shoulder-length blonde hair shimmers from the moon and candle. She shifts a little, causing the mantle to slide off her bare shoulder and present she only wears his coat and her lute.

“ _Oh, I met a young girl there with her face as a rose_

_And her skin was as fair as the lily that blows_

_I says ‘My fair maiden, why_ _mumble_ _you so?_

_Can you tell me_ _where_ _the_ _bonny_ _black hare do go?’”_

_“Oh, the_ _answer_ _she gave me, her_ _answer_ _was ‘No’_

_But it’s_ _under_ _me_ _apron_ _they say it do go_

_And if you’ll not_ _deceive_ _me I vow and declare_

_We’ll both go_ _together_ _to hunt the_ _bonny_ _black hare”_

_“Well, I laid this girl down with her face to the sky_

_And I took out my_ _ramrod_ _and my arrows_ _likewise_

_I says ‘Lock your legs_ _round_ _me and dig in with your heels_

_For the_ _closer_ _we get, oh, the_ _better_ _it feels.’” **[1]**_

“Well, this is a surprise.” Cullen chuckles, walking over to the candle. He picks it up and lights some torches by the bed and in the wall scones. He usually ignores using the additional lights, but it is not every day a nude woman sits on his bed playing a dirty song while wearing the sign of his rank.

“I told you if you followed the rules and did well in your lessons, you will receive a grand prize.” Constance reminds him, while playing the tune’s chords. She just hums now, allowing Cullen to admire her in the candlelight.

“It seems my coat arrived just in time too.” Cullen tucks the fur back over her shoulder, seeing how the cold winds make her chill. He steps towards a corner brazier under the open roof.

“You forgot you removed it after Dorian complained the fur was giving him a rash during dance practice today.” Constance remembers, her sapphire eyes focused on her plucking. “That foul dance teacher eyed it like a prize. I snatched it and raced away before he even moved.” She glanced over her shoulder. Her butter waves fell away. “It gave me a fantastic idea.”

Cullen lit the smokeless coal and pointed up at the roof. “You climbed up my tower…in that?”

Constance’s smile grew across her face. “I told you I have several routes.”

“Leliana stated I would be safe from assassins because the only route they could take would require climbing over the canyon.”

Constance giggles. “I enjoy heights.”

“Naked. In the middle of the Frostbacks.” Cullen adds with skepticism.

“The tenth hour here is a shuffle. If you are patient, you can get from point A to B with little issue.” The bard explains, returning her gaze on her instrument. “No concern. I already told Leliana. I want the challenge.” She stops plucking. “The fewest people who know about our arrangement, the better it will be later.”

“And you leaving here later?”

Constance glances at the loft’s ladder. “I hope you would let me fly out the door, but I can go the way I came. I _would_ like to avoid the fall though.”

“Naked?”

The blonde beauty laughs, a joyful sound. “I have escaped many situations naked, dear sir. But, I have Lizzy leaving me clothes in a dead drop by your tower.”

“And will this become a common prize?” Cullen walks back to her, untucking his tunic and to pull over his head.

“The same trick will get bored.” Constance concludes. She moans seeing his bare chest flexing beside her. She says nothing about the multiple scars and burns marking his skin. It reminds him of her comments the night before. Maybe she can tell he does like to speak about most of them. “But if you give me a new outfit to appear in and even toughen my routes, I will definitely arrive like this each night we are together.”

Cullen smirks, taking the lute from her lap. Her legs sit crossed, but her perfect body sits still for his review and admiring. She sits like a statue in his mantle. She tied it around her waist, just barely covering her womanhood. Her breasts flush, feeling the two temperature changes from the blazer and the chilly winds.

The warrior sets the lute to the side by a trunk. His fingers run through her blonde waves. “How do you appear with such different lengths? Your bob is the most expressive on you.”

Constance smiles, her fingers raking over his sword belt. Her electric eyes snap to his as she undoes the buckle. “Pins when short, extensions from former haircuts. For total disguises, I dye it temporary or wear a wig.” The belt loosens as Cullen lets his sword fall to the floor. She reaches down and pulls out his hidden dagger in his boot, slipping it under his pillow. “You did not do this last night.”

“I was hungry.” Cullen defends with a perk brow.

“Like I am tonight.” She purrs, her fingernails rakes the ties to his leather pants. “You drank me last night. May I have my sausage?”

The commander huffs with a smile. “I gave you it twice already.”

“Not blessing my throat and tongue.” She paws his waist band. “You don’t think you can handle both holes tonight? You _are_ going away for a few weeks.” She winks.

Cullen groans as that wicked long pink tongue follows his abs, up his body, and flicks his nipple. Her harden nipples glance his chilled skin. “You doubt the stamina of an ex-Templar, my dear?” She goes to flip off his coat, but he stops her. “It stays on. Anything you spill I want to glaze at to remember your sweet tight cunt while away.”

“I should have used it masturbating before my performance this evening.” Constance hisses through her teeth as she unties his pants with her mouth. His full erections bats her cheek, sending both people groaning at the feeling of skin against skin. “No smalls.” She is pleased.

“You said remove all armor.”

Constance laughs loudly as she presses her breasts against his erection. The feeling of the surrounding firmness make Cullen hold his member. Most women never allowed men such an experience, but Constance is not like other women. Pressing her breasts around his cock, she sucks his head, while her electric blue eyes watch Cullen’s reaction. He grunts and fists his pants, sliding down his legs.

With a finger curl, Constance calls him on the bed. She bats his hand away and pumps his penis a few times. He quickly pulls off his boots and kicks away his pants. He kneels over her similar to last night. Her hand slowly jerks him, her skin fantastic wrapped around him. Her other hand caresses his sacks gently. Every so often a nail slips between his legs and jolts him. She wets her lips thick with saliva before licking a bit of precum from his seeping tip. The smoothness makes Cullen rock, gripping her shoulder just to have something to do. Her breasts are a little too low to play with them. He would rather watch her tasting his cock right now.

Constance kisses his length lightly at different angles, all while watching his reaction and listening to his moans. Her one palm still pumps him slow and her other rolling his balls. Finally she sucks the tip again, hard and with a teeth nip. Cullen wants to jerk away, but she sucks the tender skin until he is kicking his hips to urge descending down his length. Her pace is slow as she sucks and engulfs for of his girthy shaft down and into her mouth. His tongue twists and turns around the shaft as her hand still pumps and massages the base.

Then Cullen’s lover lowers further, taking a deep breath. She moves her hand away. Cullen is not short, but she takes him more and more until he feels the back of her throat. A deep low hum vibrates around him as her tongue reaches and wets his base. He falls forward, his hands catching him before suffocating this siren beneath him. He lies on all fours as she pulls her mouth away, still humming and moaning around his cock. Her eyes never leave his face. 

Her shaft hand shifts to his buttocks, nudging him down her to essentially fuck her mouth, while her hands on his sacks intensifies. Cullen does it, her lips and tongue waiting for his thrust. Cullen groans at the warm suckle around him. He is slow, wishing for his experience to last. Constance’s breasts bounce every time he descends over her face, humping her mouth like it is her cunt. She encourages it, her throat relaxing between each breath to take him in. He keeps up, finding a rhythm as his hands fist to her one breasts. He wants to finger fuck her, giving her pleasure. He reaches lower, relying on his other arm to support himself.

Constance screams around him as he finds her sex. He gives her no time to prepare, already so wet for him just by sucking him off. He buries two fingers inside her with just a flick. Her humming is now different moans and sighs around his cock. The feeling of her lips and tongue, the vibrations, and her sack massage carry him to the edge. He rubs her clitoris for more sounds to echo around him. She struggles to keep her breath and her eyes open. Again and again, his fingers rut inside her. She releases a high pitch around him. That is all it takes.

“I’m cumming!” Cullen shouts as he spills his seed into her mouth and down her throat. Her suckling is strong as she swallows all he offers like a greedy wench. She keeps sucking around his explosion. He is so sensitive it keeps him stiffer longer. He just keeps grunting and biting his tongue, his fingers dancing inside her through it all.

Cullen hears the pop as she releases her mouth around his cock, her cheeks flush and lips blood red from the friction. She licks his cum from her lips hungrily. “You taste _fantastic_. My lucky cunt!”

The commander cackles at the declaration as he falls from his high. He needs to see her find some pleasure until he buries himself deep inside again. Falling to a sitting position, one hand remains in her cunt, and the other massages those beautiful breasts he wishes to suck into peaks all the time.

“Give me a few, and it can have a taste again.”

Constance stretches her leg, so he has a full view of what he is doing to her. “I will be patient, Heathen. I want to see this templar stamina in action.”

“Never been with one before me?”

“I never said that.” Constance admits. She hooks her leg over his shoulder so her whole groin is open and ready for whatever he wants. “White Spire knights are all show. You are a commoner who worked for his status. That means you studied and worked hard for what you achieved or those third noble sons so full of themselves that their egos filled a room with feces.”

“Why sleep with them?”

“The same reasons you likely went to the Rose: everyone has an itch that they can’t scratch alone.” She ranks her nails in the inside of his thigh. “Besides, I had yet to meet a lover who actually knew what he was doing.”

Cullen chuckled, adding a third finger inside her. She mewled and rubbed her boobs and nipples. “Practice makes perfect.”

“Or you are a natural.” She giggles before taking a deep intake of air. He found her inner bundle of nerves. “Maker’s fuck…” Eyes hooded, she stares up at him. “Yup, natural.”

“I doubt my first lover would agree. All thumbs and too quick.” Cullen confesses. He wills his shaft to get ready faster.

“You did not masturbate enough.” Constance concludes as she grips and pumps his penis to help it along.

“In the academy, you told it’s a sin.”

Constance laughs loudly before sighing as he massages both nerves clusters together. Her walls quiver. “You’ve never slept with a Chantry sister then. Horny sluts. One mission required me to sleep with a few of them. They had orgies in their little convents every night.”

“Maker’s breath!”

Constance crawled into his lap, his finger still buried inside her. She slid her juices around his hardening shaft. “The Maker gave us such pleasures because he is kind. To deny them is to deny the emotions and memories inside. They believed among each other it meant they were praising him rather than eating each other out for their own selfishness.”

“And you were among them.”

“Only one specific. A mother who was embezzling funds to pay her gambling debts. Those missing funds let hundreds of families starve. Oh, I gave her the shaft…just a sharp one.”

Cullen shudders. “Brutal…”

Constance presses her chest to his jaw and body. He impatiently willed himself to fuck her into his mattress. “Especially interesting because I tipped off the Grand Cleric. She arrived in the middle of the orgy and found the dead head mother with hard evidence penned to the wall. The convent closed, and all funds went to the needy.”

“Serves them right.”

“Oh, yes…” Constance pumps him faster, feeling the blood returning to his member. “Like you, I disagree with the Chantry’s direction.”

“Personal experience?” Cullen questions, his mind barely thinking back to Iron Bull’s assumption.

“I lived in Val Royeaux. I saw the opposites every day.” She yells as his fingers sped up. Her walls quake more. She is almost there. He retracts them fast. He is full enough. He wants her _now._ “What the-“

Cullen gives her no time as he buries himself inside that juicy cunt. Her one legs remains over her shoulder while she twists on her side. Her other leg hooks around his leg as he pounds into her. She pants and claws his shoulders and back. “Fuck, Cullen!”

“Isn’t that what I’m doing?” He huffs into her ear through his rough pace.

“Harder!” She moans, holding onto him like a vice. Cullen’s hips burn from the intense actions, but he loves the feel of her around him. Her mouth is fantastic, but he wants her vagina more. The spilt angle opens her so her clit gets brushed every skin slap. She lays perpendicular to him so she feels tighter.

Constance massages her breasts as Cullen escalates. Cullen watches the action, only getting harder and ready. He enjoys watching her feeling herself. Maybe one night he will just watch her masturbate, like on his desk spread eagle and then licking up the mess. “Must have you…want something more…for when I return…”

“Yes!” She cries as she nears the edge. She grips him. Her toes curl and nails dig deep into his shoulder. Cullen can see the puddle of her nectar on the inside of his coat. It will be filthy after this, but smell like her honeysuckle sweat while he is gone. Seeing her wearing the fur while he fucks her makes his second release soon.

Cullen hitches and buries himself far inside until he feels her cervix. It is enough. Constance hollers as her orgasm flushes her whole body and grips him tightly. Seeing her so happy and free of her typical falseness makes the burning muscles and his sweating body all worth it. Her song of praises and gasps combined with her damp hair and fluttering eyelids sends him over the edge again. He grunts and spurts inside her. He claws her hair, while she wraps her legs around his waist to have him closer.

By the time Cullen falls back to Thedas, he flops beside Constance and spoons her close. They are both gasping and sweating. His mantle soaks up her moisture, turning the fur damp. He slips from her legs.

“I better clean…” She pants, but he stops her. 

Instead, he uses the inside mantle to wipe away his seed between her legs. She watches him through hooded eyelashes, beaming with thanks. “If anyone asks, it is chalk.”

Constance giggles before kissing him once. “No one will buy that.”

“Good thing it’s in the inside…” Cullen points out before thinking. “I never asked if I could spill…” He should have thought of that in the armory.

“I have that taken care of…” Constance finishes before kissing him again. His saltiness still lingers on her tongue. “No worries on that front.”

Cullen tucks some air behind her ear. “Still…that was not wise of me to assume.”

“And that makes you so unique, Cullen Rutherford.” She whispers before bringing him close to her naked form. “You need sleep. You leave with the dawn.” 

Reluctant, the Fereldan commander listens to her concerns and rests his head on the pillows, while she slips under the covers to stay warm. Cullen wonders if she will be here when he wakes, but he knows not to push. Just having this interesting woman in his arms is enough for tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] All rights to the original composer and performer, likely fiddler Dave Swarbrick in 1965.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this fluffy, smutty chapter. If you want more like this, let me know in the comments. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Stay home, stay healthy, stay safe, and stay positive, Everyone! :)


	11. Siciliana:  Visions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I missed last week, Readers. I have been very ill lately and distracted by other matters. I am going to take a short break from "Danse Macabre" for a few weeks just to care for myself . Don't worry. I already have plenty chapters completed so when I return you will still have content and hope to continue this crazy adventure. Enjoy!
> 
> Chapter Song: "We Will Go Home" by Leah (Originally from "King Arthur" OST)  
> Example Composition: “Concerto No. 9 in C Major, 3. Siciliana” by Charles Avison

* * *

Siciliana: A Baroque dance whose rhythms resemble a slow jig. The music and dance stays graceful. Example Composition: Charles Avison’s “Concerto No. 9 in C Major, 3. Siciliana”

* * *

Constance knows exactly is happening when she feels the bed shift. She sleeps lightly anyway, caught unaware one too many times. She wonders how long it would take to see firsthand the void haunting her bed fellow. From the deep shadows under his eyes, she expected it the first night in her rooms. Alas, he just slept deeply and not in the realm that these episodes occur. Now, she has front row seats to discover why the Inquisition’s commander looks like death walking.

The woman knows not to wake her lover. She waits and observes, her mind and heart retreating so not to become emotional watching these sorrowful state. She needs to be calm and collected, not hysterical as some people can be during such situations. People’s first instinct is to touch a person experiencing a night terror, but that just brings the hells to reality. The mental patients she watched while in training killed others with their thrashing. Yes, the screams and kicking wake others. Cullen chose this isolated tower purposefully. No one will hear his traumas or rush to ‘save’ him.

The bard disagrees with his need to have a dagger within reach, but Constance understands why. It tells her he needs to feel armed and ready for anything. There had been a time in his life they had denied him this comfort and refuses it happening again. Weapons, falling objects, and even his tall bed are all potential harmful obstructions that may give him an injury. He has been lucky up to this point. They will discuss such safeguards later. 

Constance waits. Her mind lists classic signs in the meantime: Sweat, cries, tears, thrashing, short breaths, need to move, and quick heart beat so audio she can hear it from the other side of the bed. Along with the symptom, her brain cooks up ways to counter and avoid their frequency. It is a toss-up if this stubborn man actually follows it. Frustrating.

Constance is in no means a physician of the mind, but as a fellow sufferer and trained killer, she understands what needs to occur. Much of what she knows is for torture. Her mentors taught her triggers and how to induce such hells to make the person talk or suffer while captive. After learning compassion—or at least mindfulness of others—she decided she will not use that knowledge for harm, but to help others live normal lives.

Then the moment comes. Cullen’s amber eyes flashes open. He bolts upward in bed and flips his feet to the floor. He needs to pace and bleed for the adrenaline. His breaths are dangerously close to hyperventilating. He holds his head as he circles his loft, kicking away his mantle and discarded clothes. His glassy orbs have not noticed her yet, his mind still stuck in that harmful dream.

So, Constance waits, leaning forward in bed. She keeps herself covered, not knowing if the trauma is sexual in nature. She has met plenty of women and some men who see nakedness and instantly remember being assaulted in a dark ally. While Constance kills the rapist bastard afterwards, it does not help the victim seeing flesh.

Cullen kneels on one knee, his panting too much now. Constance wraps the sheet around her and steps out of bed. “Cullen…”

The commander whips his head upward, his bugging at the shock is it not alone. He studies her, trying to determine who she is and why she is in his trauma. “S-stay…s-stay away from me demon!”

Ah, he sees her as the inflictor. Yes, sexual trauma. Explains why he craves sex while stressed. The act gives him control over himself from a time he had none.

“Not a demon.” Constance assures him in an even, soft tone. Her mind frantically reviews what she knows about the Fade’s demons. It is not a typical subject in her profession unless a blood mage bard. She shudders thinking about those sick fiends. “Listen to my voice.” She lowers the sheet a little from her chest. She kneels on the floor about three feet from him. “Breathe in your nose…” She visibly shows her shoulders leaning back and her abdomen expanding. “Hold it. One…two…three…and breathe out your mouth.” She releases the air slowly out of her mouth. Again. Breath in your nose…”

It takes Cullen a few cycles to follow. He heaves a few times, fighting his panic and fear she is a demon. Soon, Constance can see it is working. The vein in his temple no longer pulses, nor the artery in his neck. Still, his heart is burning through his energy. The nightmare haunts him still.

“Now, keep breathing deeply and slowly. When you feel comfortable, I want you to describe where you are.” Constance coaches while crossing her legs. She keeps her body covered to not trigger him.

“No, I won’t…play…your game, demon!” Cullen shouts, searching for a weapon. “You wear her skin, but I know what you are!”

Demons that transform into others? Constance purses her lips. She will need to speak to the templars about this. Not knowing bugs her. She prides herself on knowing a little bit of everything. Furthermore, she needs to learn _who_ the demon wears. If the trauma is linked to a person, this will be difficult. If the person lives, they might trigger a new episode. Seeing their dead assaulter usually helps victims overcome their past.

Constance points to herself. “My name is Constance. Is that who you see, Cullen?” She finds it ironic that a woman who wears many masks each day must pick one for him to recognize.

“No…? Yes.” Cullen analyzes her, brow wrinkles and eyes focused. “No, blonde hair…blue eyes…stay demon.”

That answers some questions. Constance sighs, deciding on what to do. Cullen chose whores at the Blooming Rose on their looks, staying away from blondes. Typically, men prefer blondes over other hair types. Stereotypes and social sexuality state blondes are the most beautiful. For Cullen, blondes mean demons. No wonder he shies away from her even now.

Constance only knows of one blonde in his life. She still lives. His family is likely blonde too. He stays away from his loved ones or they may trigger him too.

The bard grasps Cullen’s mantle and lifts it over her head to cover her hair. She can do little about her eyes right now. She mentally lists new items to keep hidden here for future attacks. “You see this, Cullen?” She pets the lion fur caressing her cheek. The mantle smells of sex. He nods. “Can you describe it for me?”

“It’s fur.” He mumbles, his breath slowing down more until he sounds calm, but she knows better.

“Be precise and descriptive. The more details, the better.” Constance encourages with an uplifting tone.

Cullen squeezes his eyes shut, his mind fighting the dream’s visions. After a few seconds, he opens them again. “It’s red…? With gold strips around the seams. It has no sleeves and large. The fur is matted from constant use. The fur used to be a red lion with brown and red coloring.”

“How about what it feels like.” Constance suggests, offering a corner to physical touch. “May I get closer so you can touch it?”

The bard can tell me wants to decline her request, but fights this institution. He nods, not trusting his voice. She inches forward until he can reach out and rub the wool and cotton fabric through his callused fingers.

“Its fibers feels slight coarse from the sheep's wool, but it keeps me warm when wet. The dalen cotton softens it and gives it a smoother surface.” His fingers journey to the fur mantle. Constance keeps her face and body away, not wanting to trigger a different texture that reminds him of the past. “The fur needs fluffed or combed, but it feels comfortable against my face when tired or watching the men train.”

Constance smiles approvingly. “Very good. Can you now describe where you are?”

Cullen’s breath quickens as he searches the room. “Darkness…” He holds his bare chest. “Chilly. Cold floor.”

The bard slowly stands and lights candles. She adds more smokeless coal to the blazer. The lack of light reminds him of the terror’s environment. It is another trigger. “We’ll back away from that for a second. What about what you hear and smell? Be descriptive. Keep your breathing going; in your nose, out your mouth. That’s it.”

The commander rubs his watery eyes. He follows her instructions now. It gets easier. “Um…smoke. Sage. Oakmoss. Sweat. Candle wax.” He sighs, slightly smiling. “Honeysuckle…and buttercups like the bushes and flowering fields near home.”

“And what you hear?”

“Crackling fire and flame. Your voice, sing songy. Breeze. Quiet. I’m waiting to hear the screams.”

Constance exhales, while her eyes search the room. The silence is a negative. While many people need quiet, he is like her and needs a gentle sound to break the stillness. Nothing hammering or loud, just enough to focus on.

“No screams, Cullen. I promise.” Constance assures him, deciding it is safe enough to approach him. She outreaches her hand. “May I touch you?”

He shakes his head. “I…” He trembles. 

“No pressure.” The bard adds. “This is all for you.”

“Maybe…” Cullen chokes. “My hand?”

“You grasp mine. You have full control of what is happening.” He lifts his hand and curls his bigger hand around hers. “Very good. How does it feel?”

“Soft. Solid. Longer nails, but not like that beast…” The commander rubs his thumb over the back gently. “Constance…?”

“Yes, it’s me…”

Cullen wildly watches her. “Maker, you witnessed all of-“

She cuts him off. “-No regrets, Cullen. I’m here for you. I understand. Do not feel guilty.”

“-but…”

“You are strong.” The bard admires with a gentle smile, one that comes from a kindred spirit. “Courageous. You’ve done this alone for so long. No more.” She takes the risks and rubs her thumb over his back. He winces. Hypersensitivity. “Did that hurt?” He nods. The damn lyrium inflames him during the episodes. A two-front battlefield. This will be a challenge.

“Can you try to describe the room again?”

The trembles subside as he shifts his naked body to look around. “It’s my loft. There is a hole in the roof so I can see the stars. The daylight keeps the ivy and maple sampling growing. The bit of nature is comforting. There is bed void of sheets. A trunk. A small mirror with a washbasin where I shave. A barrel acts as an end stand.”

Constance nods, pleased by his centering awareness. “Very good. Can we try to get you back into bed? You must be cold sitting there naked.”

He pants. “I don’t want to fall asleep. I’ll dream of…Don’t want to hurt…”

“You will unlikely dream of that time again. Most terror only happen once a night. I can help you dream of a happier place if you let me…?”

Those hopeless, glassy whiskey eyes study her face. “Can I just not sleep…?”

The bard shook her head. “Sleep deprivation encourages those dreams. It sounds counterintuitive, but to avoid them you must get rest. I can help you. You can do this Cullen. You can pick the battlefields.”

Cullen’s breaths are long and controlled now. He centers himself, his templar exercises reinforcing his resolve. He already knows how to mediate, but never utilizes the techniques during these episodes because their uses differ drastically. If only someone taught him these things right after the infliction…

The commander stands, wincing as his tired muscles stretch and his joint pop. Constance would love to give him a back massage, but he is too hypersensitive. He leaves in the morning. When he returns, he will need extra attention. She is more than willing to provide it. That was their deal. Sex and a way out of these inner hells. He can do this. He has everything he needs, but no one who understand and can hold his hand during these moments.

The pair makes it back to the bed. Constance remakes the bed. She encourages Cullen to lie down. She covers his nude form as he grips his pillow. “May I join you?” She asks, keeping her nakedness behind his mantle. He nods, even waving him to his side. 

Constance crawls in, and Cullen pulls her closer. His hand slips to her hip, nudging the coat away. His fingers caress her skin. Just his light touches ignites her lust, but that is not what the man needs after such an episode. Sex is both a blessing and curse. She keeps some distance despite wanting to kiss and ride him. This is about him.

“What is your happy place, Cullen?” The beauty bard asks shyly.

The Fereldan scrunches his brow, confused. “Happy place?”

“Something that makes you happy, like what you daydream about. It can be a happy moment, a place, an action…?” She names off quickly. “The first emotion you feel thinking about it calm and happiness. Peace.”

Cullen smirks and slowly blinks. “This pond I used to go to when I was a kid.”

Good, so he does have something to reflect on. “Can you describe it to me? Close your eyes and think long and hard about that place. Every detail you can remember.”

The commander takes a long deep breath. “There is this old dock with a half-sunken boat where crawfish live. I would go with a little net and try to catch for my mother’s stew. The pond isn’t large, but it cuts through a thick thicket and a forest. The other end has a steep incline with rocks and cliffs, but a mountain streams cut through the rock and feeds the pool. If you listen too much, it will make you piss.”

The pair giggle at the observation.

Cullen’s smirk turns into a grin. “There are bass and some lake trout, but I was never any good at fishing. I still tried, but always caught chubs that tasted disgusting when cooked over a fire. Instead, I would sit on the dock day or night. I would lay down and watch the clouds and stars roll by overhead. If I was restless or frustrated, I played chess by myself, thinking of ways to beat my sister Mia.”

The commander’s grin disappears and shuts his amber eyes. “I don’t know if it still exists.”

Constance cannot have this recovering man think about sadness or uncertainty. “No, focus on the good. You can control what memories you reflect. Just remember that happy pond with its fish and woods. How often did you go there…?”

“All the time…” He calms. He inches his head towards her. He does not open his eyes, but rests his head on her bare chest. Constance freezes, her heart racing. He sighs and kisses her breasts, but does nothing more. 

Usually Constance does not allow such comfort and connections, but this is a test for her too. So, she runs her fingers through his tossed hair. She massages his neck. He exhales and mumbles a thank you. She can feel his arms relaxing around her chest and his leg thrown over her groin. He is falling back asleep. Good.

“My siblings were loud and nosy, especially Mia. I went there to find some peace and quiet. It was familiar and isolated. They still always found me, but they knew most times to leave me be. I went day or night. Winter or summer. The smell of fresh snow and cracking ice. The puffs of dandelion seeds that skipped across the surface.”

One last long exhale leaves Cullen’s lips. “Buzzing dragonflies…like your heartbeat. Honeysuckle growing by the cliff side…my happy…”

Cullen’s breaths slowly evens out, but she knows he is in twilight. Her mind wanders. She knows sleep will not return. She plans instead. She knows how to help him. He needs to learn how to do this for himself. He needs reminders around his room when triggered. He should surround himself with happiness and not the darker points of his troubled life. Constance will show him how to find his own freedom and happiness.

Even if it costs herself. 

Bend the rules, not break. Be compassionate, but detach. Help without connection. Sex, not a relationship.

This will be as challenging as her first official kill, the pivotal moment she emerged from her teachings and became a true bard.

An old song pops to mind. Constance lazily blinks, the words coming before she can stop. She begins humming so not to startling the nearly asleep man using her a pillow. He hugs her tightly; the vibrations welcoming in his ear. She knows she can gently sing without disturbing him. He wants to hear.

_“_ _Land of bear and land of eagle,  
Land that gave us birth and blessing.  
Land that called us ever homewards.  
We will go home across the mountains.  
We will go home, we will go home,  
We will go home across the mountains.  
We will go home, we will go home,  
We will go home across the mountains._

_Land of freedom, land of heroes,  
Land that gave us hope and memories.  
Hear our singing, hear our longing,  
We will go home across the mountains.  
We will go home, we will go home,  
We will go home across the mountains.  
We will go home, we will go home,  
We will go home across the mountains…_ ” [1]

She only hums the last verse, her fingers enjoying threading around his tightening curls drying from his night sweats. She loves the feel of his curls, a calming action for her too. He cannot stop kissing his head, his temple. None of this is wise.

* * *

Cullen slowly wakes, his mind groggy, but rested. He rubs his eyes. He hears winter birds chirping from his sampling and through the hole in the roof. It is nearly dawn. He leaves today.

The commander rolls over, his hand touching cold sheets. He studies the bare spot where his once lover laid. He does not remember much from the night before, but he had a night terror. She saw the whole thing. Yet, she kept him focused and even helped him fall asleep and have pleasant Fade dreams. She was right. He did not have another terror. He dreamed of his home over the Frostbacks.

Still, Cullen grimaces. Constance is gone, likely a bell before he woke. He feels the pain she does not stay in his bed like she is ashamed of their coupling. Maybe she loathes what she saw last night. That is why he leaves lovers after they fall asleep. No one needs to know about his night terror.

Broken. Addicted. Unwanted.

It is then Cullen’s whiskey eyes notice a piece of parchment on the spare pillow. His stained mantle lies beside it, folded nicely despite last night’s mess. He grasps the note, hopeful. It is vellum with a silver seal at the top containing an overhead view of a dragonfly. In curvy thin letters is a short message:

_Stay safe. Come back to me in one piece._

Cullen smells her honeysuckle and buttercup aroma on the paper. It must be something official for her noble activities…or to taunt her lovers and fans. Cullen cannot be mad though. Between his sex-smelling mantle and this little note, Emprise du Lion does not feel as daunting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] I do not own the rights to “We Will Go Home”. Just the lyrics fit for this scene.
> 
> Stay safe and healthy, Everyone. Thank you for reading!


	12. Quadrille:  Red and Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, Everyone! No, I haven't forgotten this story. I am now updating it once a month. I have several chapters ready for editing. However, I only have so much time per day to write. I have too many WIPs. I hope to update every first week of the month. I was sick last week so my bad for not getting this up sooner. Enjoy!
> 
> WARNING: Description of battle, war, blood, harm to innocent people, and freedom from capture. Emprise du Lion is not a happy place. :( Think about your mental health before reading. WARNING!
> 
> Chapter Song: "Savage" by Sam Tinnesz  
> Recommended Piece: “Die Fledermause: Quadille” by Johann Strauss II   
> Did you know this story has a playlist on [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/12b3SD7p34f5XEix43C2hH?si=9ktGNFeLQfO3z2YYFSuDog) and [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLw4onCkm8zQYchaAk_kjZIfmI7xVeWXtu)? Check them out! XD!

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The Quadrille: A fashionable dance shared by European kingdom with their colonies, although variations occurred between the general populace and courtly versions. It was a part of chain dances common in English country social dances. Its style resembled the dance’s name origin of seventeenth century mounted horsemen in square formations. This formation will later influence American square dancing. Recommended Piece: Johann Strauss II’s “Die Fledermause: Quadille”

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What a horrific place.

Cullen believed he has seen in it all before joining the Inquisition. Kirkwall was a void that never ended like the Nightmare demon plotted the city-state’s hells for its enjoyment. While assisting the city-state those few years after the Chantry explosion, the former knight-captain thought he saw all the ways living beings could harm one another gruesomely. A mentor once told him “Man has never been more creative than when he seeks to destroy himself.”[1] Maker, Cullen understands it well.

However, these last two weeks in Emprise du Lion shows the commander he has seen and experienced nothing. He sits on a boulder in the last stretch of the red lyrium mines. His shoulders hunch as his mind processes what this war has done to innocent lives. He understands the Silver Fox’s pleas at the opera performance now. She remarked she wanted red lyrium gone, personally observing its horrible effects. Cullen only imagined a fraction of what he actually witnessed in this icy wasteland.

The commander is lucky. Seleem kept him off the front lines at the beginning to minimize his red lyrium exposure. He only pushed with the main regiments after the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle. By the time he arrived, the Inquisitor and Cassandra destroyed many red lyrium nodes so he just needed to direct the waste crew to terminate the horrific mineral.

Cullen knows this secondary position is not a slant to him personally. He fought his poisoning thoughts that try to convince him he was not strong enough to be with the front team. No, Cullen understands her methodology. Seleem wishes him to be part of the process, but not agitate his recovery. He speaks constantly to Cassandra. The seeker evaluates his condition, and the commander is grateful. His friends support him, while being mindful of how difficult this can be on his wellbeing.

Those amber eyes watch his men dispose of the red lyrium. They cycle out every ten minutes to reduce over exposure. Cullen remembers he is not the only one feeling the nausea and headaches. His soldiers suffer from nightmares, crying out at night. They too witness the atrocities here. They too hear the red poison’s whispers and allurement. He counsels them on resisting the words and urges. He feels like his words are empty as he too wanders in the dark on what to do. 

The former templar finds solace in his bedroll each night. He craves that peace there now while sitting on the boulder. Quiet and lonesomeness used to haunt him and bring his past hells to life. 

Now, laying down at night, his nose smells honeysuckle and buttercups. He keeps that small vellum note in his bedroll so the smell permeates everything. Cullen’s mind instantly shuts off the day’s voids and thinks of his childhood lake and soft supple curves. He remembers little from that chaotic night before he left, but enough to semi-coach away the nightmares threatening. He hums in his brain; his voice struggles against older memories about music. He focuses on childhood happiness instead. It does not keep away from the night terrors, but he does not fear sleep as badly.

Cullen sniffs his mantle fur wrapped around his neck. His facial hair is now officially a long, coarse beard. The fur tickles the long whiskers. The sex smell dissipated within two days of arriving in this winter hell. Sitting in the mine, he remembers what that Orlesian beauty looked like in his commander mantle. Anything to block out watching rescued townspeople from slave cages. If the Inquisitor delayed a few more days, those lives would have perished and become new red lyrium nodes and adversaries.

Remember happiness, Cullen.

Constance sitting on his bed plucking her lute.

Constance lying beneath him grinning happily as he undresses.

Constance sucking his cock feverishly, those lyrium blue eyes watching his flushed face as he spills into her mouth and throat.

Cullen pinches his nose. His five minutes of reprieve is over. Inquisitor Seleem, Cassandra, Varric, and Vivienne assault Suledin Keep today. The former Orlesian Champion Michel de Chevin told them about the deadly demon there aiding the red templars. The southern pass make military support difficult so the Inquisitor ordered them to focus on red lyrium clean up and guiding the townspeople back to Sarhina.

Cullen huffs to himself. His men need not do that, it seems. Since beginning the mine assault the last week, their mysterious friend assists the Inquisition in the background so they could focus on stopping the red lyrium leaders and slavery. The Silver Fox shows her presence throughout the last week, bouncing around from tree to cliffs like a monkey. She wears white and silver to blend into the scenery. The first time the vigilante appeared, Cullen thought he was seeing a lyrium withdrawal hallucination. Seleem explained she thought the same when first meeting the destitutes’ hero in the Emerald Graves. There, she wore brown, green, and silver to camouflage herself.

Here, the Silver Fox leave notes and caches for the Inquisition. They notice passages clear of red templar booby traps. Or she arrives after a battle with first aid materials she stole from the enemy for the wounded. The soldiers drink a detox red lyrium recipe the Silver Fox discovered from her many contacts. It is not a cure, but at least takes the edge off. Skyhold’s apothecaries currently revise the recipe for higher potency and other benefits. She never stays, just floats in the background, not directly interfering like Garrett Hawke did in Kirkwall. Cullen now understands why Seleem and Cassandra admire the vigilante.

Now, the people’s protector works in the background lockpicking the slave cages then leads the people out of the mine while the Inquisition fight the red templars guarding the place. It allows his men to focus on the task and not potentially harming a civilian. When the commander arrives back at the destroyed town, he witnesses some people rescued finally recovering, sleeping in warm blankets, and eating a hardy, nutritious meal.

Glancing up around the mine cliffs above him, Cullen feels the Fox’s covered eyes watching him. It sends shivers down his spine, but it is like if the Maker was watching his back. It annoys him such a figure interrupts their well-crafted operations. Her presence suggest Cullen did not plan properly. However, he reminds himself this individual is the only person thinking beyond themselves in this war. The other Orlesians left this forgotten town to the void. It is not an insult to him or the Inquisition that she is interfering, but a extra hand so they may focus on the ultimate goal that a single person cannot do themselves.

How long has this Fox stayed here and watched that noblewoman sell her people to the templars and felt useless? How long did they search for someone to help and her calls went unanswered? Cullen wonders if the Silver Fox faults him for not acting sooner and instead requesting Leliana investigate the claims here. 

The guilt grows watching the sick and weak succumb to the red lyrium poisoning. He sees a random person with their throat slit in dark corners. _Cole_ must be here giving those suffering a swift death before becoming a node and hurting more people.

“Commander, the west cave is ready for waste management.” A lieutenant reports and salutes. 

Cullen slowly stands, his joint popping from the long days of fighting and working. “Understood. We will begin after midday. The men deserve to return to the nearest checkpoint and eat without poisoning and weather exposure. We will draw back the main force, while Leliana’s scouts report back on the Inquisitor’s progress.”

The officer salutes and nods. “Aye, Commander. On your orders.”

Cullen watches the man run back to his regiment, relaying the edicts down the line. He watches the slight relief in his men’s faces. While the meal will be field rations, it is better than listening to this toxic humming while sitting on an ice block.

The Fereldan commander hears horse hoofs above him. He grasps his broadsword hilt, thankful that the red lyrium whispers does not damp his acute hearing. No tinnitus. His headache only affects his smell and eyes today. The hoofs hammer against the snow and ground above.

Right then, a white and silver figure appears, while the steed rears back and kicks into the air. The iconic silver animal mask glimmers in the midday sun. It only covers half the person’s face, while a wrap disguises the lower half, likely to move and breathe better.

“SAHRNIA BURNS! THE PEOPLE ARE UNDER ATTACK! THE RED TEMPLARS INVADE!” The Silver Fox hollers down into the mine. Every Inquisition member watches the rider and horse pace and spin anxiously. “PLEASE HELP! MICHEL DE CHEVIN AND YOUR WOUNDED ARE OVERWHELMED! MAKE HASTE!” With that, the Silver Fox kicks her horse and races back down the mountain passes towards town.

“To arms!” Cullen cries as Inquisition soldiers race towards the mine exits. “Horseman, return and retrieve your horses! Footman, split and guard the mine. The red templar may try to reclaim it. With me, Inquisition!”

Things are dire, Cullen thinks as he makes for the nearest exit. He left his war house at the last checkpoint to reduce the animal’s lyrium exposure. The horsemen and he run quickly back, while his ground officers remain and fortify the mine. A groomer holds his stallion’s reins when he crests the hill. His leg burn from plowing through the high snow instead of following the worn long paths. He mounts and barely gives the stable hand a moment as he kicks and clicks his tongue to gallop down the mountain. The other horsemen follow behind. Many of said soldiers are former templars and chevaliers trained in horseback fighting.

Twisting down the mountain passes, Cullen sees the plumes of smoke and ash flying. Women and children's cries echo off the cliffs. His mind kicks himself for resting. He should have probed why he had not received any new reports from Sarhnia and the base camp. Or studied the maps for possible flanking paths and animal trials that potentially allowed the red enemies to invade.

The closer the commander gets, the more the guilt mounts. There is no way the Inquisitor can return and assist in time. How will the horses maneuver through the ruins and avoid harming the elderly and weak? How many more people will perish because he miscalculation?

If it was not for this vigilante, smoldering and burnt bodies would be all that remained when the Inquisition did return…

Broken. Failure. Unworthy.

Breaking through the lower forest, Cullen’s horse reaches the tree line. Up ahead, a white and grey horse rears and kicks a red templar in the face. Its rider jumps off the saddle and drives her arming sword into the knight’s warped face, then cuts off the head with the short sword. Barely a breath later, the Silver Fox moves to the next target, her strikes precise and deadly. She frees an elderly man being dragged away, cutting off the templar’s red spiked hand before removing the head again. She works her way towards Michel de Chevin struggling against the ambush.

Cullen and his horsemen reach the conflict. They gallop through the templar ranks, cutting and spraying tainted blood everywhere. The commander directs his steed through the chaos, using its armored body to trample the enemy before driving his broadsword into their hearts and skulls.

“Forward!” The commander cries, his whiskey eyes watching the Silver Fox working towards the Orlesian champion and the trapped townspeople. She jumps, weaves, and twirls through the battle. The strikes are on target. She kicks and breaks necks while defending herself from halberds. Throwing knives fly out of her cloak into red templar eyes. She weaves and dodges red templar shadows alone. Her white and silver armor soak up their arm blades when her dodges fail. All the while, the Inquisition wounded and scouts lead the townspeople away from burning buildings.

Cullen rides closer, suddenly wanting to aid the vigilante. He owes her for the alert. His hesitation evaporates as he watches the rogue hero bob around singing blades and weapons. She keeps placing herself in front of a crying little girl or an unconscious person. More of her gear shreds the longer unaided.

Right as Cullen goes to gallop through a line of red templar, a halberd swings and hits his shield. He sits unbalanced on saddle like a novice rider and his boots slips from the stirrup. He falls, but lands on his shield, his broadsword ready to take down more monsters. He roars, mimicking the animal his lion helm resembles. His men cry out in solitary. They work through the buildings and fires, clearing out the invaders. Those amber eyes keep a lookout ahead. Michel de Chevin lives and now fights back to back with the Silver Fox. The commander points and orders some mounted men towards the pair.

The red templars seem to crawl out every standing house to meet the Inquisition. Some look surprised that their ambush is quickly interrupted before Cullen ends their assaults with his blade and shield. He keeps his helm secure to avoid swallowing the tainted blood and broken crystal dust spraying through the air.

The Silver Fox races forward to block a pair of red knights as Michel pulls a woman and infant from a smoking building. He guides them away towards the Inquisition camp; the mother holding her crying baby close to her chest. Meanwhile, Cullen watches the Silver Fox get kicked the ground. She rolls and unclasps her cloak to avoid her arms and legs getting tangled. She uses the cloth to cover one templar’s head, while diving her short sword into the other. The rogue jams a throwing knife from her long leg belts of knives into its eye and slices through the cloak to cut open the covered creature. Both fall within seconds.

Cullen watches as behemoth plows through a building wall while a red lyrium shadow race through its legs towards the Silver Fox. “Behind you!” The Fox twirls and dodges the shadow’s dagger arms. The behemoth hears Cullen’s warning, turning its attention to him and the men covering his back. “Form up and shield wall, Inquisition!” The commander calls as the monster roars and lumbers forward. Its massive hammer arm readies to pummel the defenders.

The Fereldan is proud of his men. Over the last two weeks, they work like a single being. They call, protect, and work together through the tight streets and canyons. This is not the first behemoth they have fought, but that does not make the battle easier. Still, Cullen rarely has to order them as they act as one to flank and shield themselves from the red monster.

Every so often, Cullen glances to his right to where the Silver Fox works alone to keep a flanking regiment from breaking the Inquisition line. More throwing knives and arrow sing and kill red creatures, but the Fox tires. She now relies on her duel daggers strapped on her back. Her short sword and arming sword broke during previous fights.

Cullen whistles and calls a reliving squad to assist. However, the behemoth responds before the squad notices. It hammers the men against the crumbling buildings. Screams echo through the burning town. There is little the commander can do. They must take down the monster first.

No matter the Inquisition’s tactics, there is no way to flank and stab the giant. It is smart, likely a templar officer in the old Order. Its red lyrium spike wall tears through the Inquisition ranks. More cries and blood spill on the mud and snow.

An ice spike flies from the east. A horror falls by the Silver Fox. Galloping in is the Inner Circle and the Inquisitor. Seleem summons more ice spikes and freezes the behemoth’s feet so the Inquisition troops can flank and stab through its red lyrium armor. Meanwhile, Vivienne flip barriers over the wounded so the scouts and rogues can take them to safety and triage. Cassandra joins Cullen, sending out a Wrath of Heaven to rejuvenate the group. Varric’s crossbow snaps bolt after bolt at the behemoth’s head and the other red templars overwhelming their unlikely Fox ally.

“Commander! Seeker!” Seleem hollers right as the behemoth kicks a leg loose from the ice. It aims its massive weight at Cullen. Cassandra dodges, but Cullen is trapped by the fires and a cliff face.

_Boom!_

The behemoth hollers as an explosion knocks its knee. The Silver Fox screams, hopping and parkours up the broken walls until she drives her daggers into where she thinks is its eyes. The creature tries to buck off the rogue, flinging itself around. It falls backwards, avoiding stepping on Cullen. It lands through a two-story crumbling building with the Silver Fox.

“Take out the last red templars!” Cullen orders his men now free from battling the behemoth. The commander dives for the building where he still hears fighting. He jumps through a falling door frame to see the behemoth still trashing, but other templar fighting the Fox. The woman looks trapped under the behemoth by a tattered leather armor skirting. Cullen shield bashes one knight, while defending the wounded Fox. She works to unbuckle the armor to save herself. The vigilante and commander work together, slicing through the dying behemoth and the remaining knights. Every time the monster kicks or moves, more building supports crumble.

“It will fall!” The Fox cries, the voice clearly a woman’s as she dodges away from a war hammer. She finally broke free, but the templar have her surrounded. “Get out of here!”

“You first!” Cullen hollers. “I’ll hold them off!”

The Silver Fox does not leave. “Kill the behemoth! I’ll stop these cunts!”

Cullen understands her thinking. Maybe by killing it will stop the collapse. He jumps on the red lyrium giant’s chest and starts stabbing it in the heart. The giant hollers one last time as its leg kicks the south corner. Cracking wood beams and breaking plaster echo around the pair.

“Ah!” The Fox hollers as her face gets hit with a shield. A blade nearly cuts through her face, but the metal mask blocks the blow. She pulls another item from her belt. It is another bomb. 

Cullen joins her, killing the templar. He lifts her after placing his shield on his back. In her hand is the lit bomb. “Make for the exit!” She yells, throwing the bomb at the last wounded enemies. Cullen aids her towards the last open door. They hear the explosion behind them right as they jump out into the street. 

The building collapses, the entire valley roars as the last standing building falls towards the frozen river. The falling debris smashes through the thick ice and slides into the lake. The ice buckles and rumbles throughout the valley as plaster, wood, and stone falls into the icy water. Within a minute, all that is left of the old house is a gaping watery grave.

The commander slowly crawls off the curvy mass below him, his legs wobbling because his ears bleed. _There_ is the tinnitus. The close-corner fighting and the explosion echoed likely busting an ear drum. He pants, searching the ruined alley for his troops. He cannot hear if there is any more fighting, but the Fox’s lack of panic states the battle is over.

Cullen offers his gloved gauntlet to his unlikely ally. As the Fox turns her hooded head his direction, he cannot contain the gasp falling from his scarred lips. Behind his helm, as the vigilante’s face turn towards him, the multiple battles cut the eye lacing from the silver fox mask. A single lyrium electric blue eye beams up at him. She does not take his offered hand, instead uses the moment to race away and out of town.

Only one person has such a striking eye color.

_Constance…?!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] The hubby actually thought up this quote while we were in undergraduate school. We are historians, but he focuses on the nuclear age….so you get where he thought of this for. :/ If this sounds like a famous person’s quote, let me know. He has been curious if anyone else has thought of it and give proper credit.
> 
> *GASP!* Constance and the Silver Fox are the same person!? Oh, Cullen is going to be PISSED! Thoughts? Anyone guess this?


End file.
